Hetalia Headcanons
by Professor Owlfeather
Summary: Russian Zombie Dog Experiments? A Drinking Contest between Russia and Germany? America's active visits to the Storage Room? Germany's Scars? My Headcanons, backed up with History. Gerita, Amerus, and Rusliet so far. -On Hiatus, being revised-
1. Russia's Puppies

**Chapter 1: _The First HeadCanon_**  
_Russia's Puppies  
_

**Headcanon 1:**

_Russia tends to have nightmares, and it's Lithuania that normally goes to help him. _

**Headcanon 1.5:  
**

_Russia does not keep normal dogs anymore._

**Characters:**

_Russia, Lithuania_

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Wish I did because then we would have 30 minute episodes am I right

**A/N: **Idk about this. I've been working on this for he past few days or so- and I got into Hetalia about a month ago. I don't expect to get a lot of feedback either, but any at all would be great!

Also, I am going to make chapters for all my headcanons, starting with headcanon one! so expect more chapters or something!

I swear to god, I love RusLiet so much. :)

_**EDIT!**_

This chapter has been rewritten, after taking a long, hard look at it.

* * *

Lithuania's eyes blinked open at the feeling of Russia's cold breath tickling the back of his neck. He resisted the urge to tremble, shifting in the slightest, the bed creaking at his movement.

How many times had he woken up in this situation now? Russia, holding him lovingly, sharing the bed, his cold touch sending shivers down his spine.

Lithuania lost count long ago.

An arm looped under his waist, another petting and running through brown hair, embracing him in the scary-but-strangely-loving way that only Russia possessed. It

Toris tried to wriggle out of his grip, get those cold, masculine hands off him. For someone so warm and hot, Russia's touch and breath sent sensations throughout his body. Such sensations. . . they were _indescribable_. A simple blow from Russia's icey breath, such as the one on his nape, made his blood rush and every fiber of his being excite in a mad dash between terror and comfort. Wherever Russia's frigid hands petted, formed goosebumps in their wake, and sent a thrill that ran in leaps and bounds throughout his body. But still, somehow, such things made Liet feel comfortable.

_But why?_

Russia was a danger and a hazard to the world. Russia could conquer Europe if he wanted to. Russia terrified him, as he should.

But why did _this_ feel so comfortable and safe, if _this_, in reality, made him vulnerable, and at Russia's mercy?

The Salvic's grip around his waist tightened, and pulled the Baltic closer, engulfing the smaller nation in his arms. His back pressed against Russia's oddly warm chest. In that moment, Lithuania shivered for many reasons. From the skin-on-skin contact, from the nation's strangely warm chest, from the chilly breath running down his neck, from the cold hand that rubbed his skin possessively, and from the cold fingers rubbing his scalp, running through his hair. And somehow, still asleep.

_Or maybe half-awake._

Why did Russia always have to be so_ scary?_ Even in his sleep? Most people looked peaceful or cute when they slept! Like Latvia! Or Poland!

Toris forced himself to stop trembling, and he tried to wriggle away again, carefully and slowly. It felt wrong, to try and get away, leave Ivan to wake up in an empty bed, but to find a breakfast cooking downstairs. A part of him wanted to stay, to be wrapped in Ivan's embrace, but the other part, the majority, its message was clear:

_**GET AWAY WHILE YOU CAN THIS IS DANGEROUS CAN'T YOU SEE THAT YOU FOOL**_

But alas, Ivan's embrace only wrapped itself around the Baltic more, trapping him.

A hand moving away from his head, lightly brushing Liet's skin as it traveled down his side, then draping over Liet's chest, and taking its hold.

He gave up trying to get away, praying that Ivan's grip would either loosen or let go of him.  
_I hope Latvia and Estonia are awake. . . Mister Russia gets annoyed if he doesn't find breakfast made when he goes downstairs. _

Toris laid there, Ivan's grasp tight and loving. The Baltic found himself staring at the wall before him, relaxing into Ivan's touch, wide awake. _Again._

_Damn Russia.  
Damn me._

The bed shifted.  
Lithuania let himself go limp, afraid of annoying, and thus angering, the other if he did not comply to his movements. The larger nation adjusted, his nose snuggling itself into the crook of his neck. A large puff of air, like a relaxed sigh, came from the other, and Liet released his breath.

He was so submissive these days, wasn't he? Letting Russia do these kind of things _to_ him and _with_ him.

On one hand- he _almost_ hated waking up in the morning like this. In bed with another man, warm and _cozy-_ No. But then, the thrill and the excitement of it. . . The way his body practically fitted and matched Russia's. . .  
_**No.**_  
_**Stop.**_  
_**This is wrong. You know it is.**_

Then _why_ did this feel so comfy?

It shouldn't be.

He should hate this. He should feel angered and ashamed of himself.

Then why didn't he?

On the other hand, this was better than waking up alone and cold, dreading the day. Lithuania shivered- even if he _did_ protest to this, it wouldn't matter anyway. He knew that. Russia would win, Russia would be more forceful, Russia would be very unhappy, Russia would make him scream, and Russia would leave him, collapsed on the floor, begging for him to stop.

Protesting would _always_ be in vain when it came to Russia.

Lithuania could remember when he first began to live under Russia's roof. He had been unhappy about it. No- unhappy was an understatement. He had defied Ivan's every order, cursed and insulted the larger nation.

And Russia only responded with a grin, and dragged him down into the basement.

Lithuania remembered his state when he came back out a week later. (At least, that's how long Estonia said he was gone.) He, in a manner of speaking, was shaped into the ideal servant for Ivan. The ideal servant being: trembling, stuttering, submissive, and his pride stripped. Liet preferred not to recall what happened down there. The _screaming-_ the _cuts-_ the _crack_ and _whack_ of a whip- the begging of Russia to _**stop-**_ stop, and he would listen and be good and **_never_** think of disobeying him again.  
He recalled being ruptured by writhing agony, almost choking on his own blood. . .  
And all of that pain was like a long period of life. Like he had lived all the time of his real life in pain and torture, and that the time when existence had pleasure was a dream, long gone by.

He shivered.

He used to be so powerful. He used to be a force to be reckoned with!

A powerful empire! The Grand Duchy of Lithuania, and then The Commonwealth.

He had owned so much land in those days! He had so many cultures and races- Poland, The Teutonic Knights, Urkraine, Belarus, even parts of Russia _himself!_

And now, he was. . . _this._ Practically another man's. . . What word would be right? Man Servant? Employee with Benefits? Laborer? Slave? Friend? In an extremely twisted and awkward relationship?

Russia's _bitch?_

No- he couldn't be that. He didn't always awake in Russia's Bed, by force, or when Russia needed to fill his needs.

Sometimes, he came in here out of terror. (But why go to one terror when he escaped from another?)

Or, like last night, _by choice._

Lithuania stilled, holding in his breath, as Russia snuggled him closer, like a child wrapping themselves around their stuffed toy. He relaxed in the embrace.

For example, last night, the three Baltics were woken up by terrible yelling and banging from the other side of the house.

Of course, they all knew who it came from, and why. Russia's nightmares. And, after past experiences of said nightmares, they long since learned that it would be better to have a happy Russia in the morning than a moody, upset, and guilty feeling Russia in the morning.

One of Lithuania's self-appointed jobs being to handle this side of Russia. The side of Russia that Ivan did everything to bury and hide. A side breaking down, that lost too much and seen too much war. The side that Russia rarely let anyone see, his only side that ever _cried._

Lithuania _pitied _this side of his master. This side had a voice. Whether its voice screamed or broke down in sobs, words incoherent or babbling, the meaning behind its words were clear.

_**"I'm a monster! A monster! I don't deserve my existence!"**_

_**"I can't help it! The world has treated me cruelly! People, other nations. . ." **(This was normally followed by some explanation of why he was this way.)  
_

**_"I want help. I want friends. The Baltics are my friends, aren't they? No, they can't be. What kind of friends quake in fear at your presence?" _**

**_"Why can't I get any help? Don't I deserve any? A second chance? Maybe a way to get better? Why do I not deserve this?"_**

**_"Will somebody just please help me! Anyone?!"_**

**_"No. No one is coming to help. They're too afraid."_**

Lithuania wanted to be that help. He couldn't bare to just stand there and do nothing. Anything to quiet that side.

Toris began recalling last night.

-x-x-

The horrifying yelling and loud ruckus, like a small child being murdered, came from the other side of the house.

And so, he got out of bed, exiting the room, leaving an Estonia trying to comfort a startled Latvia.

Toris walked down the hall slowly, a small sigh coming from him. He couldn't let Estonia or Latvia do this- going into Russia's bedroom and calming him down and telling him everything would be okay.

Latvia would say something and only make the Slavic nation more emotional and become violent in the I'm-going-to-murder-you-but-I-love-you violent that Russia possessed.

On top of that, the only thing Latvia could endure was a lot of alcohol- besides that, the smallest Baltic could be a twig that Ivan would throw in the fireplace.

And Estonia?

The lucky bastard had been able to keep off Russia's bad side, and had only felt a scratch of Russia's torture, compared to himself and Latvia. He knew how to not piss Russia off, or even remove himself from the situation entirely.

Again, a lucky bastard.

Despite that, it didn't matter who, everyone would be the same when you lived under the roof of Russia.

_You gave in._

It didn't matter how strong your will was, or how much pride you had, or how powerful you were, or how many nukes you had.

_You are helpless in the face of Russia. You are weak compared to Russia. You gave into Russia._

Said Nation had long since pounded those words into the Baltics.

Prussia had shared that fate. He saw the German every now and then, down in the basement, but otherwise he wanted nothing to do with him. That mad cackling. . .

_What did the Soviets do to East Germany?_

But still- he couldn't let Russia hurt the other Baltics. They would brake. They couldn't endure the same.

Lithuania's hand now rested on the doorknob, sounds between whimpering and yelling clear from inside.

_"Stop- Stop! Don't hurt them- Get away from them! Stop doing that! I'll kill you! I will kill you!"_ A strangled scream came from inside, and Lithuania considered leaving Russia to his nightmares.

_No-_ Drunk and Moody Ivan in the morning must be avoided.

Ensure there is no Drunk and Moody Ivan in the morning.

Drunk and Moody Ivan in the morning would kick a puppy- or Latvia- and not regret it.

With a sigh, Lithuania twisted the knob, entering Russia's bedroom.

The arctic nation laid on his bed, curled up in a small and pathetic ball, blankets and pillows thrown off. Russia being shirtless, trembling and the softest, stifled sobs coming from him.

_He looked so vulnerable, didn't he?_

_"No- no, my puppies, my puppies!"_

How could you hate him when he looked like **_this?_**

Lithuania approached the sleeping Nation, carefully and slowly, until he was in arms reach.

He tapped Russia's shoulder, and jumped back. He didn't react_._

Lithuania approached again, and gave Ivan's body a small push, and a gasp sounded out as the larger nation awoke. He stepped away from the bed, Russia sitting up and looking for whatever awoke him.

Amethyst eyes quickly honed in on him, and Lithuania began trembling. He could see that Russia was making an effort to reestablish his walls- trying not to show any weakness in front of his favorite Baltic.

_"Litva,"_ His trembling turned into shaking as Russia said his pet name. "why did you wake me?"

"You- You were screaming and yelling- s- sir. . . I- I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Hopefully Russia would dismiss him and let him go back to his own room- "Litva, can you come sit with me?"

**_Dammit._**

Lithuania shuffled, sitting down on the bed next to the larger nation. Russia wrapped his arms around him, resting his chin on Lithuania's head, and pressing his arms against his side. Liet shivered, Russia's grip tightening around the Baltic like a teddy bear that he clung onto for life.

And now there would be no escape from Russia.

"Did I ever tell you about the little litter of puppies I got, Litva?"

Oh god- he _hated_ this story.

"Um, no, sir."

_"Say the right word."_ Russia commanded in that sweet but threatening tone.

"No- No- _Master-_ you haven't told me about about the puppies."

Satisfied, Russia started his story.

"They were so adorable and cute. I don't remember how many there were, maybe twenty at least. I remember that when they all jumped on me, I would literally covered in adorable puppies and dogs. They were so cute and soft- so kind and innocent. They were all different puppies too- mangy or fluffy, white or black, multi-colored, and so many different breeds and ages. They all loved me, adored me, and I," He paused, starting to twirl Lithuania's hair between his fingers, trying to comfort himself. "loved them."

The Baltic shivered, feeling Russia kiss his hair once, lightly.

"One day, I came home after I had a visit with a scientist, _Sergi Sergeyevich Brukhonenko,_ and my boss. And all my puppies were gone! All of them! And a few days later, I got a report in from someone, and it told of what happened to my adorable puppies." Lithuania didn't say anything, only letting Ivan touch him and continue his story.

"They killed them. Brukhonenko killed them _all._ My adorable puppies, all dead. They separated their body parts, and the worst part? Some of them, they beheaded. They wired a head to a machine, any they kept it _alive. _For hours and hours. They poked and prodded it- like a lab experiment. And some of them- they cut apart and sewn and attached a tiny dog to an adult dog."  
Lithuania shivered, and Russia stopped playing with his hair. The hand moved down to brush and pet his back, and the Baltic forced himself to cease trembling.  
"Although, on the bright side, if you want to call it that, some of them, they killed in natural way. Hooked valves up to the body's neck- and it was. . . indescribable to watch. I got drunk and wrapped Brukhonenko's neck in my hands- about to kill him, and then. . . " Russia paused, Liet could feel a hand travel away from his hair, and travel down his back then under his shirt, making small, icy circles in his skin. He sucked in a breath.  
"They flipped on machine, and after few minutes, the dog began breathing again, his heart, beating!"  
Russia's grip around his waist tightened, bringing him closer. "They were alive again, actually alive! And after ten days or so, they were up, walking and barking again. Completely normal dogs!" Pause.  
"They wouldn't give them back to me, either. To study on, they said. An excuse." Russia silenced, finished with his story.  
"That is why I don't keep dogs anymore, Litva. They remind me of my puppies. They remind me of what happened to Laika."

"That- That's a lovely story, Master." He just wanted to go back to bed. . .

"Do you think that would work with _humans,_ Litva?"

Lithuania's body shook harder, and he wanted to get away before Ivan tried anything. And by anything, he meant inhumane and downright disgusting.  
He just wanted to go back to his own bed.  
"Litva- could- could you stay with me tonight?"  
And going back to his own bed was not happening.  
"Um- sure- Master. I guess so. . ."  
He could feel Ivan's smile spread across the Russian's face, and Russia threw him back on the bed, on his side and snuggling against him.  
"Perhaps little Litva can prevent nightmares, da? Or I prevent his?"  
That being the last he heard before Ivan threw the covers over them, and made him fall into a fitful sleep against the Russian.

-x-x-

Lithuania blinked, staring at the wall, and he could noticed Ivan's breath suck in deeply. He shivered, Russia's grip loosening.

"Good morning, Litva."

* * *

Alright- what Russia is talking about are the Russian "Zombie Dog" experiments, done in 1939. Look it up, super creepy. And yeah- they would actually cut a smaller dog a behind their forearms, and sew it onto another dog. There's a ten minute video about it on YouTube.

Link: (youtube) /watch?v=KDqh-r8TQgs

um, if anyone has any corrections for me, please let me know! Also, they are speaking russian the whole time, and this chapter took place in the 1950s.

***Edit:***

**What did y'all think of updated chapter?**

**The Next HeadCanon:**

_Russia and Germany are very strong drinkers. They have drinking contests from time to time, and normal you can't tell who wins, with them being even. _


	2. The Drinking Contest

**Chapter 2: **The Second and Third HeadCanons

_Russia and Germany's Drinking Contests_

**_HeadCanons:_**

**HeadCanon Two;**

_Russia and Germany are very strong drinkers. They have drinking contests from time to time, and normal you can't tell who wins, with them being even._

**HeadCanon Three;**

_Germany underwent a small personality change after WW2. (Started drinking more and earlier, Italy was around more to keep him sane, he rarely trusted anyone anymore.) Because of this, he has trust issues, only trusting Italy and his brother._

_And, in turn, Italy began developing a not so happy-go-lucky side to his personality._

**Characters:**

_Russia, Germany, Lithuania, and N. Italy._

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Hetalia.

**A/N:**

I wrote this one on the way home, I hope you guys like it! And I apologize for any OOCness, I haven't exactly figured Germany and Italy's personalities and actions. And in this, you see, one of my headcanons is that Italy does have a serious side. It only shows on rare occasions under certain conditions, though.

And I guess you can say Ivan is a little bit of an asshole in this one. . . like, really mean, I guess you could say.

And, some GerIta.

**Edit:**

**This chapter has been edited, and expect the next two chapters to be updated soon.**

* * *

Liet hated going to these, but he had to anyway. After all, he had to live up to his title as Russia's Lapdog. And, on the unfortunate fate that Russia got completely smashed, _someone_ had to drive him home.

Italy attended for the same reasons, being Germany's puppy (and disciple), as well as the Blond's ride. _(God have mercy on Germany.)_

The Puppy and the Lapdog sat a table beside the bar, watching their respective nation. After laying down their Euros, paying for 20 mugs of beer and 20 bottles of vodka. The Bartender brought Germany various alcohols, and Russia, different vodkas they had in the back. _(The bartender long since grew used to these contests by now.)_

Gulp after gulp of alcohols, until they decided that glasses did them no good. Eventually, Russia drunk straight from the bottle, and Germany downed mugs of beer. Anyone who hadn't already seen one of their contests, felt intimidated and entertained by this, but drinking like this was the norm for the two nations.

By the time Germany had twelve empty mugs, and Russia had 13 empty bottles, Germany starting to ware down, already mumbling, and Russia, Liet decided, was struggling to keep his smile and calm voice.

"You know what- we've done these before- and it's alvays the same." Germany mumbled, setting down another finished mug.

"I always win, da? I makes me wonder why you try." Russia replied sweetly, taking another swig of vodka, and setting it down.

"Because- I _let_ you win." The German shot back, bitterly.

_"What did you say, Germany?"_

Lithuania flinched- he knew Russia heard the German's words, and the Slavic was merely daring Germany to repeat himself.

_"I said,"_ Germany started, his hand grabbing the handle of another glass that the bartender had set down seconds before. He took a gulp of the liquid, before turning to the other nation. "I _**let**_ you win."

_"And vhy is that?"_

Lithuania glanced over to Russia. He could see the slightest bit of anger and disappointment twitch onto the Russian's still smiling face.

"Because, Italy thinks that if you lose, you'll flip your scheiße."

Lithuania leaned back, rooted to the chair, as the air grew stern and danger radiated off Russia.  
It was serious now.  
Russia was going to do everything in his power to prove his dominance of alcohol over Germany.

Russia's gaze went to the Italian, and he in turn, ran behind Lithuiana, shaking, fear running into his voice. "Nononono! Not my idea, Germany is drunk, si? Germany says many crazy things when he drunk! Ha ha ha. . ."

Russia's gaze flipped back to Germany, and his grin widened. "If that is case," the large nation slid his bottle of Smirnoff over in front of the blond, and slid Germany's beer to himself. "Then we change tables, da? You Germans can't handle my drink, so I heard. Or you may like it, since one of ingredients is potatoes."

Germany stopped pouring the vodka into a used mug, setting it down with a _clank. _Blue eyes now stared at the Russian. "Is that a _ficken_ stereotype?"

"Da."

Germany obviously seemed annoyed and his next words were laced with contempt. "Hope you can handle _Eisbock_. The alcohol content is," Germany paused, as if struggling to think, rubbing his temples, and set his hand back down. "I don't remember."

"_Doitsu. . ._"

Liet's eyes flashed over to Italy, who had decided to poke his head out from behind the him.

"You told me it had at least nine to thirteen percent. Stronger than some of my wines! And that one time you got drunk and couldn't hold down my wine, you were-"

"What he said." Germany mumbled, gesturing to the Italian, and shushing him at the same time.

"All the more exciting." Russia said back simply, taking the mug and lifting it to his lips, taking a few gulps before setting it back down. By the way Russia's breath exasperated, and he stuck out his tongue, Lithuania could tell he didn't fancy the taste of German Beer. "You still haven't taken your shot of Smirnoff. If you can finish a whole bottle, we can bring out the real alcohol, da?"

"What do you mean _can_, Russland? _Ich werede es zu beenden!"_

Without another second of hesitation, Germany took his mug, gulping it down. Then grabbing the still half-full bottle of Smirnoff. Italy backed away and went to his seat across from the Baltic, watching the two men from the table. As Germany proceeded to chug down the remains of the vodka, Italy grew more and more worried with each gulp.

"Hey Italy," Lithuania began, already feeling uneasy himself, as Russia started to gulp the Eisbock. He desperately hoped Russia wouldn't get absolutely drunk tonight, because Drunk Russia posed a threat and a danger to everyone around him. Drunk Russia could be described as temperamental, violent, dominate, and he prayed Russia had forgotten his pipe at home.

Although, Drunk Russia could be funny time to time.

(_"America thinks he is sooo special! He talks about how it was sooo bad for him when Britain owned him! You know what I think of that? Child's play! He had it easy! When I was going up, I was bombarded with invasions! You know what else? Growing up, my only friend was a yak! Least people wanted him around!")_

"Ve?"

"What's Germany like, when he's drunk?"

"Oh, Doitsu? Well. . ." Italy touched his chin in thought, a small smile appearing on the Italian's features. "_Drunk_ Germany is very different from _Sober_ Germany!" Liet quickly noted how the Italian referred to it as two different people. "Drunk Germany is very talkative. It makes me wish I knew German, because Drunk Germany doesn't know how to speak English,so it's all confusing and we can't talk to eachother. And normally- Drunk Germany starts sounding like he's mad and throws fits for about twenty minutes, and I leave the room. Because Sober Germany doesn't want anything to happen to me!"

Liet noticed that Italy spoke of it as a routine, and like he had done it many times. "And after that, I go back in to check on him, but I don't go in if he's still mad. If he isn't- he starts getting all sad, and starts hugging me and petting my hair- and he sounds a lot like he's confessing and being sad over things. One of the things I like about Drunk Germany is that he's more open and_ touchy-feely_."

Liet raised an eyebrow. "When you're saying the touchy-feely, do you mean _that_, or. . . ?"

"Hm?" Italy's head cocked in confusion, but then straightened up in understanding. "Oh, _oh,_ nononono, not like that. That's why I don't go near Drunk Germany when he's mad. He just is really huggy and cuddly and clinging like a cute kitty cat!" The Italian paused, smiling. "And I never know what he's saying, but he always says one sentence every time he gets drunk, and I wish I knew what it meant."

Liet felt as if there was something he wasn't saying, but he decided to ignore it. "What does he say?"

"Umm, I might be saying this wrong, he says, 'Ich liebe dich.'"

While Liet's German tended to be a little rusty, he knew what _that_ meant. Before he could translate and tell Italy, the Italian had continued his story. "And then he just does that for a while, and he ends up falling asleep like that. With me in his arms, and all. It's so cute- I wish Sober Germany would do that."

"Why do you say that?" Liet questioned, putting an elbow on the table, and holding up his head in his palm. Italy opened his mouth, about to answer, until interrupted by an angered German yell.

_"But I drank it all!"_

Germany had finished the once half-full bottle, only for Russia set down another bottle in front of the German.

"Tsk, Tsk, Germany. Or would you prefer Doitsu?" Both Germany and Italy flinched at this, the Italian emitting a small whimper, while the German grew stern, and pointing a finger at the Russian. _"You. Russla__nd. _May not call me that."

"Ya budu nazyvat' vas, chto mne nravitsya, vy pedik." Russia replied in a smug tone. Liet's eyes widened, as the Salvic continued, switching back into English. "You drank the half left in the bottle. I said drink a _full_ bottle. Drink half of this, and I drink your Eisbock, and we can go get the _real_ alcohol."

Leit shivered.

Turning their attention away from them again, Italy answered him. "Sober Germany is more closed in and confined. He rarely smiles anymore- you know, _actually_ smile." The Italian paused, glancing at the German, trying to take in half a bottle of vodka, then back at Liet. "After World War Two, he really wasn't the same. So ashamed of himself and he so tormented and confused. . . Germany's home became very scary in the first few months after the war. I wanted more than anything to take him back to my place, eat, sleep, and go to bed, all smiles and happy. But Germany, he insisted that he stayed and helped out, despite how much it hurt him. His people were crying and scared, so Sober Germany was the same way."

"So why did you stick beside him? I mean- what kinda things were so scary over there?"

"I stuck beside him because I _care_ about him." The words struck the Baltic, almost surprised. Italy, cared about Germany? Like, best friends?  
Or, _something else?_  
"And well, some of the scary things, like, the Berlin Zoo had been bombed. all the animals would be dead. Either from bombings or from the fact they couldn't escape, and they would starve to death. I remember, seeing giraffes and elephants and horses, dead and sad looking. And like the buildings? They were washing bricks and passing them down in a line, trying to rebuild. Sometimes," Italy began to frown. "They would walk into homes, and the entire family would be dead. All dead from suicide. A lot of people thought death would be better than what was happening."

Italy's kind gaze rested on the Baltic, and Liet could tell the Italian wanted to avoid speaking anymore of the touchy subject. "So, what is Drunk Russia like, Lithuania?"

"Drunk Russia? Well-" Liet, mouth parted, about to tell how Ivan was a moody and violent when he drunk, until he _felt_ the kind and violet eyes of Russia land on him. Toris didn't even have to look back at the larger nation to confirm it, he just knew Russia's gaze was on him.

Well he couldn't tell the truth _now_, could he?

"Russia- Russia is actually a very calm drunk. I mean- when he is with the intoxication, you can hardly tell. He acts like he normally does."

He felt Russia's gaze turn away, and Liet hoped he had said the right thing.

"You say he act almost as he normally does, do you mean he's really drunk all the time?"

The gaze locked upon h him again. "W- Well, no, of course not. Russia isn't always drunk. . . I mean- it's not like he's a scary drunk- he acts so when he. . ." No no no! Those were the wrong words! Russia was

going to get him now! Oh- uh- "R- Russia is a very kind person, once you get to know him."

Thankfully, any further questions were stopped as Germany set down a half empty bottle with a knock on the wood of the bar.

"I'm barely impressed, Germany. You know- I had a drinking contest with Gilbert once. And I have to say, I'm ashamed. He is a stronger drinker than you, apparently. He was able to down at least a case of Vodka, and not sway." Russia clapped his hands together, gaze landing on his lapdog again. "Litva, go and get the Swedish Vodka out of the car, da?" Lithuania didn't hesitate, and went out to get the strongest Vodka Russia owned. He came back minutes later, setting the Swedish bottle between the two men. He, about to go back and sit next to Italy, but stopped dead in his tracks as a clumsy and icey hand gripped his shoulder. "Litva. I did not say you could go back and sit. Look at me." Liet did and about face, his eyes on the larger nation, and trembling.

He wanted to put some distance between himself and the two drunks.

"This is the strongest vodka I own, Sweden sent it to me for my birthday. It's called _Voditxka Cannabis._ It's alcohol content is over eighty percent. Now, Germaniya, what did you bring?"

_"Cocoroco."_

Russia laughed at the German's response, "Oh, come on Germaniya. The only person who has _that_ is Denmark."

Germany grumbled, and his next words, barely audible to Liet's ears, made Italy straighten up and look at Germany uncertainly. Even Russia's eyebrows twitched in the slightest curiousity.

"Germany, you can't be serious- I mean- last time you tried that, you started-"

"_Shut up_, Italy." The Italian shuffled, and Liet expected that the German started morphing into the 'Drunk Germany' Italy talked about.

"What beer is he talking about?" Liet asked, his gaze directing to Italy.

"Snake Venom."

Liet now took a turn to look at Germany uncertainly. The beer, widely known for being the World's Strongest Beer, with a 67.5% alcohol level. It even made some of Russia's favored Vodkas cower in fear.

"I doubt you can handle it, Russland." Germany said, an ambitious and almost clouded look in his eye.

Germany, daring the Russian, trying to get an upper hand, trying to _win_.

"Oh, how cute." Russia's responded, smiling as he always did, a hint of triumph in his voice, as if he had already won.

"Italy. Go and get it. It's in the the back." With a nod, the Italian dashed out of the bar, and long before now, everyone watched the four men like they were a show. They both had that ferocious and clouded look In their eyes, wanting one to fall unconscious before he did. Liet just wanted this to be over with and wished he could go sit back down.

The bar went deathly quiet as Italy walked back in, the green-labelled bottle in his hand. The Italian backed away as he set the beer next to the vodka, and went and sat back down. Russia dismissed his lapdog with a flick of his hand, and Liet went to sit by Italy.

The Bartender sat down four empty shot glasses, and the nations filled two shots with the alcohol they had bought.

"If the shot doesn't knock you onto floor, Germaniya, then you drink straight from bottle. And I do the same."

The blond nodded hazily, accepting the Russian's terms. "And if I win," Italy dashed up, from his seat, grabbing Germany's shoulder. The drunken nation shook him off- staring into violet eyes. "I get your _Hündin_."

_That_ caught Liet's attention, and the Baltic scanned and analyzed his master's face, trying to tell how drunk he may be. Trying to measure his chances, as well as how safe everyone else in the bar was.  
He also set aside his annoyance for what Drunk Germany just called him.  
Russia's smile faded, and the smallest glare danced onto his face, and the air around him became thick with hate. Ivan leaned forward, his gaze landing on the Italian, who failed at trying to cease Germany's rashness. Ivan glanced back at the blond man sweetly. _"Und ich bekomme deine._" He replied in German, stern.

Germany seemed to hesitate, almost fighting for what little sense of sober he had left. "Or," Ivan continued, "you give up now, and we all go home. Or, I can have the joy of seeing you unconscious and weak, and I have full access to do as I _please_ to your body. And your little puppy won't do a thing about it. But- I'm sure you're used to it. Especially with what your own soldiers did to other women." *****

Germany lurched back, feeling his puppy tug on him and speak in rushed Italian. Something along the lines of, bad idea, raise the white flag and go home before someone got hurt or did something they would regret deeply. The blond looked angered now, his fist clenched, almost thinking of punching the Russia's sweet face. Germany shook his head, staring at the Russian. "Or we just drink and see who passes out first instead of weighing our. . . Friends. . . Lives on the line."

Now _that_ sounded like Sober Germany.

Russia straightened up, smiling. "Da. But- one thing. You ever call my little Litva that again, and it _will_ be more than their lives on the line." The German nodded in understanding, as they both took a shot of the beer and a shot of vodka.

Liet stared at the two, and he could see Russia grab the Swedish Vodka, and tip it into another shot glass, with slowly shaking hands. He took another shot of the vodka, pretending it to be nothing, when he was struggling. Despite the calm appearance, Liet could tell Russia was feeling the effects of the vodka.

Germany's hulking form finally fell unconscious, falling off the stool and hitting the floor with a loud and defeating _thump_, just as he had been pouring another shot. Italy dashed to his side, taking the beer and setting it back down on the bar counter as the blond man groaned drunkenly. Liet's eyes flashed over to Russia, who didn't disapprove as he went over to the drunken blond.

Despite the fact Russia sat on a stool three feet away, Lithuania could feel his gaze, and the imaginary feeling of someone breathing down his neck.

"I will head to car, Litva. Help Italy with his druzhok, but do not make me wait long." Lithuania could hear the Swedish Vodka being taken away, all with the heavy footsteps that went to a car outside.

Lithuania the lapdog aided the weaker puppy of Italy in dragging the blond man to Italy's car, and buckled him in. The lapdog prayed a moment for Drunk Germany and Italy's driving skills as he shut the passenger door. Italy gave the Baltic a hug before walking to the other side, and glanced down at the unconscious German before looking back up at the Baltic.

"Lithuania, do you know German?"

The Baltic nodded quickly, wanting to get back to Russia before Drunk and Moody Ivan kicked in.

"What does _'Ich liebe dich,'_ mean?"

The Baltic turned away, already seeing Ivan waiting for him in the passenger seat of the distant car. Lithuania glanced over his shoulder, meeting gazes with Italy for a moment. "Well, my German is a little rusty, maybe you should ask him sometime?" Wait, why did he just do that? He turned around, facing Italy, about to speak again until the feeling of Russia's breath down his neck and his gaze on him rushed to him.

A bad idea to keep Russia waiting.

Without another word, Lithuania went to Russia's car, and saw that the larger nation had just fallen asleep in the passenger seat, and the Baltic drove him home.

* * *

**_German:_**

Scheiße = shit

Ficken = fucking (when translated as; fucking stereotype.)

Ich werede es zu beenden! = I will finish it!

Hündin = bitch

und ich bekomme deine. = And I get yours.

**_Russian:_**

Da = Yes

Ya budu nazyvat' vas, chto mne nravitsya, vy pedik = I will call you what I like, fag.

Германия; pronounced Germaniya = Germany

дружок; Druzhok = Boyfriend

i prefer to use the pronunciation, because it's dialogue. So you should read how it sounds. However, if it was writing, then you would use Cyrillic.

**A/N:**

Ok, this done mostly with google translate and google search, do if there are any mistakes, please correct me!

The part about the Cocoroco, it's one of the most alcholic drinks around, with about a 96% level.

Also, when Russia mentions to Germany about the women;

A lot of women were raped and killed by soldiers during WW2. If they were found, they would be raped and killed. And some of this even in their own countries. And suicide rates were high that year.

Really horrid stuff, guys.

Um, I think that's about it!

Thanks for reading, please R&R!

_*** EDIT:**_

_** I was very mad with myself when I realized I got my facts wrong.**_

_**So, here is the correction;**_

_As it is known, **Soviet** Soldiers, especially once they conquered Berlin, and then East Germany, they murdered, looted, pillaged, and raped over a million women, ranging from 8 to 80, oftenly more than once._

_Along with this, it is suspected that not only did Soviet Troops do this, but American, French, and British as well._

The Next Headcanon:

_**America Divided; Part 1**_


	3. America Divided

**Chapter 3: _The HeadCanons Four through Seven_**

_America Divided, Part 1._

_**HeadCanons:**_

**HeadCanon Four;**

_America has reoccurring flashbacks and/or nightmares about the past._

**HeadCanon Five;**

_America tries to clean the storage room at least once every one or two weeks, but fails due to what's in there._

**HeadCanon Six;**

_There was a Native America_

**HeadCanon Seven;**

_Alfred was as an Indian for a while._

**Characters:**

_America, Native America, England_

_**Disclaimer:** _I do not own Hetalia

**A/N:**

I know, I'm literally shit for not keeping with the line as I stated. I am in the progress of chapter four, and for anyone concerned on the well being of MFtOY, I am working on that next chapter. Germany's Scars will be chapter 5.

Um, I want to note, I end up using human names and country names interchangeably. Partly because it think it gets boring if I keep reading, America did this, America did that, Blah blah blah.

Now, let me tell you how much research went into this chapter. Enough that I had to split is chapter in half. Ladies and gentleman, to compile this chapter, I watched two documentaries, flipped through three books, (at least 900 pages), and at least went through five wikpedia pages, just a lot of stuff.  
_In fact, this is just the first half of the chapter._  
I love this chapter so much, it broke me, but I love it.  
I mean, as I was writing this, I wanted to cry. I really did.

History notes at the end; Italic Dialouge means they are speaking in Tsalagi.

**Warnings:**

_OC, violence, feels, feels to the left, feels to the right, feels up high, feels six feet down below, feels literally muthafucking everywhere._

* * *

He was trying to do it again. Clean out the storage room, for the second time this week. Last time what stopped him was a picture of an American-Japanese family, all frowning and wearing tags on their clothes. The time before that, he had stumbled upon a copy of the Bee Movie.

America lifted a box, the first thing catching his eyes was the wooden chest below it, with a note taped to it.

_Do not open. Ever. Unless you wanna feel like shit. -Alfred_

Whatever was in there, he didn't remember what it could be. Wouldn't hurt to look, right? Whatever it was, he was tough enough to deal with it. He was a hero!

America set down the other box, then getting down on his knees and clicking the latches. As soon as he lifted the lid open, his eyes laying on the material inside, he felt like shit. A frown came onto America's face, his eyebrows pulling back.

He reached in, the first item coming out, a set of clothing made from animal skin. It didn't look new or pretty, it was worn, it had holes and burn marks in the skin.

A deep sigh released from him, sitting down and crossing his legs, the wooden floor creaking. He rubbed the skin between his fingers, before raising it to his face and smelling the fabric.

**1674-1678**

He had grown since England had first found him, since Jamestown was almost lost. By human age, he was 10 now.

The land of changed, he had noticed, what once had been trees, there were houses. Where there had been groups of innumerable animals, was now meat.

New England felt like he hadn't seen his big brother in forever.  
Big Brother Britain had been mean to him to him in the last twenty years, but that's what Big Brothers did sometimes, right? Sibling Rivalries, anything could happen, right?  
They had expanded the land, met Indians, and hey, had gotten Indians to convert to Christianity and have some of his customs! And hey, maybe he could get all the Indians to be like him!

Well, his Big Brother wasn't too important right now; someone in Plymouth had screwed up, so at the current moment, Alfred was walking, alone, on a road to said Colony.

He got there too late, just in time to see the crowd as he entered in, just in time to see three Wampanoags executed.  
He was in Plymouth for three years, for King Phillip's war. He wanted so badly to battle with the colonist, but they wouldn't let him, saying he was too young. For three years, he had watched a total of 3500 men die.

He never wanted to have anything to with Indians again. He wanted to leave them be. Why did he even have to interact with the Indians anyway?

**1690-1734**

_Oh god, what had happened to him?_ He had been in his home in Virginia, asleep in his bed. And now New England was confused, afraid, and still in his nighties. His hands were bound.  
There were Indians infront of him, the Cherokee, at a guess. They spoke in rushed chatter and a language he didn't understand. One of them suddenly came up to him, a dagger in hand, and stabbed his leg, pulling it back out.  
He cried out in pain, wincing as the wound quickly healed itself. That's what wounds did, him being a colony.

They suddenly backed away from him, screaming and yelling.  
Another Indian, one he assumed was of higher rank, grabbed him by the collar of his nightie, and dragged him outside to the center of the village, where a fire brewed.  
They stared at New England with hate and fear, like he was disease that _had to be killed.  
_The Indian raised him up, the fire dangerously licking his clothes, chanting and screams all around.

New England screamed. _Where was his Big Brother? Where was his hero? Where was **anyone? **H_e was going to die! New England closed his eyes, praying his last wishes to God, for someone to save him, for forgivness.

A feminine yell rang out, and the Indian holding him turned around, the crowd shushing. A Native American Woman walked up, grabbing New England from the other Indian, speaking in a stern and angered tone.

The crowd quickly dispersed, the fire put out, and him clinging onto the woman.

She carried him into one of the other tents, where he assumed she lived. She tried to pry the boy off her, with no success.  
New England felt so confused and conflicted. This lady- this _Indian-_ had just _**saved him.**_ Why would she do that? What did he deserve to be saved? He clung to her torso, his arms wrapped around her tightly, burying his face in her tan animal skin clothes. He was shaking and tired, scared and exhausted.

He wanted his Big Brother. He wanted his family.  
But he wasn't sure if he would ever return. Britain was so far away.  
He needed someone, **_right now._** He wanted to go home. He wanted a mom or a dad, so done to cling to.  
New England fell asleep out of exhaustion, still clung tightly to the Indian.

Over the next few months, he was integrated into the Cherokee tribe. It didn't happen overnight, no, he worked and helped, adapted and gained the rest of the tribe's trust. It was weird, he was a slave to them, but they treated him as equal, despite that he was of the white man.

The colonist had always taught him that kidnapping was wrong. That it wasn't okay to take someone from their home.

Yet, now that he thought of it, it was weird, on both sides. Indian slaves were treated as equal, that it was a norm, but then, the slaves in the colonies. . . They were mistreated and below the very ground they walked on.

New England quickly threw away his Colony Name, no longer New England and felt all the Responsibilities drift away from him. He took up the name of _Wunadegvi Tsukanvsdena_, meaning _"Throwing Bull,"_ and no longer thought of himself as New England. He now was the size of a teenager, his human age being 15 now.

He learned the language, Tsalagi, with some difficulty. His mouth barely opened, and his tongue always pressed against his bottom jaw. He had long since burned his nightie, and wore the skins of animals he hunted. His once pale white skin, now had the slightest tan. His blonde hair was tied like the other tribesmen. He wore paint in rituals and ceremonies, he hunted like the other men in the tribe, he defended the land that rightfully belonged to the them. He was a powerful asset too, with his ability to_ literally_ throw bulls. But even more, that he understood English. More than once, White Man woukd come onto the land, with papers, telling the Indians that the papers were peace treaties and promises to help eachother out. When, as soon as Throwing Bull looked at them, the papers were actually asking for ownership of the land and right to do what they wanted. He would translate for the chief, and the White Men would be driven off in a heartbeat. Along with this, he tuaght the Chief English, because the Chief asked him to.

He had his own horse too, and he named her Liberty. Because Liberty _ruled, _and so did the paint mare.

Big Brother Britain was long forgotten, and saw the native woman who saved him as his mother. She was Native America, and was known as Awenasa, or, _"My Home,"_ among the Cherokees. It depended on which language's land she was in. He loved her and looked up to her, and she loved him back.

Britain didn't matter anymore. There was just her. She was actually there for him. She raised him better than the colonies or Britain ever would. Britain set laws, Britian did what he could to make sure he was just like him. But even more, the more he thought about it, Big brother was a jerk to him. Britain never came to help him. Awenasa did. Britain didn't give him mental or moral support! But who did?! Awenasa!

Awenasa was his mother. Now and forever.

He loved living with the Cherokee tribes, he loved every minute of it.

Throwing Bull never wanted it to end.

He wanted to ride the land forever on his horse, he wanted to be free and happy, he wanted Awenasa to stay with him forever.

He would never be alone again.

**1735**

Britain was _very_ cross. Ever since he had gotten word of New England, the boy, disappearing in the night, his mood had went from concerned to furious that he had been kidnapped. He couldn't be dead, he just couldn't. He had finally gotten a boat to to his colonies in 1720, and hadn't stopped looking for the boy since then. He had received a tip of a young white man that had been taken by the Cherokee tribe a small ways away yesterday, and he had to make sure it wasn't New England.  
Britain sat a horse in his long black cloak, which he had gotten from the Virginia Village a mile or so back. The horse walked along slowly, but Britain really didn't care.  
Britain shuddered, thinking of the boy living under those. . . _Savages._ Only god knows what they did to him.  
Britain could finally see the Cherokee village, a scowl lacing across his face. His eyes swept through the natives, until-

"New England."

New England- his son, was here. That had to be him. That white skin, those blue eyes, the hair. And by the looks of it, these Savages had turned him into one of _them. _

_He would have to fix that, wouldn't he?_

Britain turned the horse around, running back to the town to collect people. And if they didn't do it voluntarily, well, _he would just force them to help._

There was a different air in the tribe the next morning- Throwing Bull could feel it, everyone could, and there was news to confirm it, as the Chief called a meeting.  
"Yesterday, one of our scouts spotted a white man on a horse in our land. We don't know why he was there, but the reason can't be good. I want all of you on your guard, and be ready incase the white man returns for blood."  
Of course the reason wasn't good- White Man_** never** _came in peace. They came in greed and tricks, Throwing Bull knew that.  
The chief flew out a few orders to go patrol the area, and they were dismissed.

Throwing Bull and Awenasa sat in their tent, in a shared silence and on opposite sides of the room.  
Throwing Bull spoke first. _"Do you think it could be-?"_

_"No,"_ Awenasa's reply was short and cut-throat. _"Throwing Bull, why do you always ask me when there is white man in the land?"_

_"Because. . . Well I mean. . . It's not because I miss him. . . It's just that, I know that if he ever finds me, he'll kill everyone here. And- then he'll take me away, he'll make you a slave. . . I don't want that to happen to you. Or anyone. I like living like this. I like being Throwing Bull."_

_"I know you do. I promise, I won't let him take you away."_

Throwing Bull stood up, going to the other side of the room, sitting down next to her and enveloping her in a hug. _"And I won't let him hurt anyone here."_

A few minutes later, the stomping of hoofs and frantic yelling came, and the scouts had returned. Except. . . One was missing. So was a horse.  
_"White men are coming! Very large group! They all have guns and horses! They will be here soon!"  
_Everyone got ready. The children were hidden away, the women grabbing weapons to defend themselves.

Throwing Bull quickly put a zigzag line across his forehead, and gave his mother a hug as she ran off to protect the children. He quickly readied himself for battle, grabbing his tomahawk, and his rifle.  
As soon as everyone had gotten their weapons and readied themselves, the white man barged in, their horses trampling tents, and stopping in front of the Tribe.  
A man on a black horse took a few steps foreword, wearing a matching black cloak that covered his face. Everyone raised their weapons, expecting him to attack.  
He folded down his hood, and Throwing Bull's entire body went rigid.

_Britain._

**_Big Brother._**

_No! He was going to take him away! He was going to kill everyone! All Britain did was leave a path of destruction and pain! _

The chief took a few steps foreword, his own weapon ready and gripped tightly.

"I know you have him." Throwing Bull fought to keep his posture, to show no weakness or fear.

"Who?"

"New England. He belongs to me. Come on, he's the only white man in your group."

Some the other tribesmen glanced back at him.

_Oh Great Father, whatever the chief said; that would decide his fate._

"How does Throwing Bull_ 'belong' _to you?"

"I found him. I colonized this land. He belongs to me, and he will come back with me."  
Did Britain even realize how_ stupid_ he sounded?

"Throwing Bull does not belong to you. If he doesn't want to go with you, then that is his decision. Throwing Bull, get up here!"

He went past the others, going to stand next the Chief. Britain's gaze landed on him, one of those bushes he called eyebrows raised up, and a look of disgust came on his face. Britain sighed. "Good then. New England, let's go." Britain was about to turn around as he spoke up.

"What if. . . I don't want. . . To?" The words came out slowly and felt weird on his tongue. He had barely spoken English in almost 40 years, and quite frankly, the language was starting to disgust him.  
Britain turned, staring at him. "And why In bloody hell would you not want to?"  
"Because. . . Because I have a family here. I. . . Have a mother. . . And, I like living here. I. . . I wouldn't trade it for anything else."

Britain stared at him, gaping, before it turned into a furious glare. "Oh my god. They- they brainwashed you! These savages. . . They have you thinking all wrong! They made you one of them!" Britain pulled his gun, readying it. **"Kill them! All of them!"** Britain pointed his gun, and shot at them. The white men rushed forewords on their horses, trampling and destroying anything in their path.

Throwing Bull was rigid. He _knew_ Britain would do this! Maybe he should have just surrendered. . . But- He liked living here. He cherished it. He felt free and powerful with the Indians, he felt important!

_This is wrong! Britain should just mind his own business! Let me be free to live as I choose! _Freedom. He was going to have Freedom. He would be Free!

Throwing Bull heard a _bang_ as someone fired a gun, and the situation became total, all-out _war_ as he saw the Chief fall dead.

Dead at the hands of Britain.

A new found fury swept over and took control of Throwing Bull, and he pulled out tomahawk, lunging at the Brit and knocking him off his horse.

_"Murderer! Murderer!"_ He screamed, as England got up, sword pulled. The two brawled, punching and kicking, Axe meeting Sword.

"You will come back with me!"

_"No! I won't and I never will again!"_

"Stop speaking bloody French you insolent child!"

How dare Britain say that to him!

Britain felt horrible, fighting his own son. But- these savages had brainwashed him! They had changed him! They would pay for this! New England was his colonies, and his responsibility!

He was going to take New England home, even if he was kicking and screaming!

As the battle progressed, Throwing Bull suddenly heard the screams of children- _which meant_ _someone had reached the kids, and a white man was going to **die. **_Delivering a final punch to Britain's face, sending him back a few feet. He heard Britain yell behind him, but it didn't matter. He rushed through the battling masses, people falling dead or injured on both sides.

Throwing Bull rushed into where the children were hiding, and fury rose in him, his grip tightening on his axe. Two white men were in there, and was touching Awenasa in a very _unokay_ way.

His axe went through the neck of one, and the other man, he grabbed, braking his neck. He let them both fall dead, and helped Awenasa up.

He ran back out, seeing his friends, the tribesmen, people who treated more like a family than anyone else, falling dead. And Britain killed the most- he was walking towards Throwing Bull, his cape flowing behind him, any warriors who came at him got a shot to the head or a sword through the chest.

He was _furious._

Britain was going to _**die!**_

Throwing Bull stared at the approaching Brit, before turning and finding his horse, jumping on her and charging at Britain. Rather than flinging a weapon at him, as he ran past the Brit, he seized the hood of the cloak, choking him and dragging him.

_He was **not** going to lose! Not without a fight!_

Everything went fuzzy with the rush of adrenaline, with people screaming and falling dead, with the threat of the children being hurt, with Britain being there.

Most of the warriors laid dead. Anyone that wasn't, was bound with ropes and forced to kneel before Britain.  
"What do you suggest we do?" One of the white men asked Britain, who glared down at the remainders of the tribe that kneeled before him.  
"Kill them all. Except the white one and the woman."

_No- No!_ Throwing Bull thrashed, trying to break free of his restraints, and feeling them snap. He kicked away a white, who was about to kill another one of the tribesmen. He ripped off Awenasa's ropes, then another warrior's.

_"Get out of here! Take the children! Do what you have to! Get out of here!"_

As they undid the other's ropes, Throwing Bull gave it his all, defending them, getting the remainders of the tribe to escape. Making sure they kept their freedom. He hurt anyone who came near them. They got on the horses, the children with them. Everyone ran away, except Awenasa. She turned, mounted on Liberty, staring at him, waiting for him come.

Throwing Bull turned, facing her.

He want to, he wanted to so _badly._ He wanted to run away with her and try to rebuild the tribe, be free forever, but he couldn't. Britain would follow and track him down, and only kill more.

_"Go! Mother! Run! Please! Get out of here! Just go! It's me he wants!"_

Awenasa seemed to hesitate, and he could see tears threatening her eyes. She rode away on Liberty.

_"I'll return to you one day! I promise, I will! I'll come back to you!"_

Throwing Bull turned back around, facing Britain and the five men that had survived with him. He held up his hands, folding them behind his head, and got down on his knees, surrendering.

He felt any pride and happiness he had vanish.

Britain approached him, tying his hands and making a leash. He didn't want to speak, he didn't even want to look at the nation he called his father.

Britain forced him back into civilization, and every piece of him felt like shit. He had to wear chafing, uncomfortable clothing, he was forbidden from speaking Tsalagi, he was forced to forget. Forget ever being with the Indians, being happy, being free, forget the culture and the language, but even more, forget his mother. Britain changed him, put him back in a world where he was restrained and taxed.

Throwing Bull died, his happiness with the Cherokee dying with him. Now, what was there was the new, 13 colonies of New England.

**1831-1838**

_Of course he had supported the Indian Removal Act. That was the American thing to do._ _It opened up 25 million acres!_ But- something was **_wrong_** about it. Something that made him feel guilty. He was in Arkansas, watching the Indians go through before they entered the new Indian territory.

It made him guilty to watch this- he could see animals fall dead from exhaustion, he saw mothers without fathers, children without parents, he had seen too many people pass through, and he felt horrible. He didn't know why or what he was waiting for.

He waited until the Cherokee finally came, 1838.

And then, she saw _her._

And he remember her, he remembered how she took him in cared for him. He remembered, tearing coming to his eyes.

"Mom!"

He ran through the crowd, pushing and shoving, until he was in front of her.

_"Mom!"_

The word and the language felt odd on his tounge, but, it felt natural. Why was he suddenly speaking it?

She looked at him like he was crazy.

_"Mom? It- it's me- Throwing Bull!"_

She stared at him, before her gaze straightened, and pushed past him. America grabbed her shoulder, and she turned back, glaring him. The look made him step back- it was a look of pure and utter hate, disgust, and betrayal. _"Throwing Bull. . . What do you want? Why are you here?! To put me in more pain?"_

_"I- it's just. . . I felt like something told me to come here. England, he made me forget all about you, and the tribe. I- I'm- sorry, mom. I really am."_

_"You should be. Since England took you away, I have felt and heard and experienced nothing but pain and suffering. Of my people, of my land, of my animals, of everything." _America could feel the guilt flood him, and his throat burn, tears threatening his eyes.

_"Your machines killed my buffalo, your pilgrims made my tribes die of illness, your people tried to change us, and convert us, to Christianity and school education. You did what you could to make my people just like yours. You made trading posts, made us wear your clothes, worship your god, live and breath and speak like you. Your people committed genocide."_

_"But-"_

_"But nothing America. I have been hurting even more since England stole you from me. He made you like his ideals. He made you think, breath, walk, talk, and act like a white man. You removed my people from my land, forced them out of their homes. You stole, you lied, you tricked my people into selling their land to you."_

_"America, you may say and think that you are this land, but you are not. You are nothing. You are America, the America that England made. Not the America I tried to raise. The America that cut down my trees, plowed my land, killed my animals and my people, claimed my land as yours even though it wasn't. I don't even have to ask The Great Father for great suffering on you. **You will never be able to feel like one, whole, true person again, my son.**"_

_"What- What do you mean, why?"_

Awenasa was already gone, disappeared into the massive crowds of her people.

That was the last time America ever saw his mother, and he never felt so alone.

**Present Day**

America sighed, settling the clothes down, tears blurring his vision. He took off his glasses, wiping them away, before he decided to look again.

He gasped, pulling out grey uniform, which was unreasonably small and blood stained. He unfolded the uniform, his face frowning and somber. Until, a small photo fell out from the uniform. America scrapped it up for the floor, and looked into it.

Two boys, a younger version of himself, in a blue uniform, and the other, younger kid In a grey uniform. The photo was black and white, but he could tell the colors. His gaze travelled to the boy in the grey uniform, and he sat back against another box, immediately starting to cry.

* * *

Japanese-American had to wear identification tags, when America was making anyone of Japanese heritage go to camps.

The Zig-Zag line was a War paint symbol, believed to give the warrior strength and speed.

Small reminder guys, if you look at the Colonies from the indian's POV, we were **_invaders._**

I think I explained most of it in the chapter, but incase I didn't, let me know.

Up Next:

_**Conner C. Jones.  
**_


	4. America Divided, Part 2

**Chapter 4: HeadCanons Eight Through Eleven  
**

America Divided; Part 2

**_HeadCanons:_**

**Headcanon Eight;**  
America has scars from Self-Harm (Civil War)

**Headcanon Nine;**  
A nation's body represents their land. For example, the worse the war, the worse the event, depending on where it was in the country, the worse the scar.

**Headcanon Ten;**  
America may be as unstable as Russia; sometimes go to eachother for mental support.

**Headcanon Eleven;  
**Multiple things happened to Alfred during the civil war, and he wasn't the same after.

**Characters:**

_America, Russia, Germany, England, France, and OC: Conner C. Jones_

_**Disclaimer:** _I do not own Hetalia.

**A/N:**

**_HEY GUYS_**

**_I PRACTICALLY SOLD MY SOUL TO SATAN TO WRITE THIS ONE_**

**_YOU'RE WELCOME_**

I've had some difficulties writing lately. Highschool started for me, and I've been very busy trying to keep my grades up. I barely have time to sit down and write these days, and I hate it. Especially, like with this chapter, I'm having to write like a paragraph or two in different sections, and it makes me feel like certain sections have a different feel to them, and it doesn't flow as fluidly.  
If there are any history parts I did not explain, please let me know, but I believe I explained most of them in the chapter.

um, I'm working on chapters to two other stories, plan to have them up soon.

it's actually my birthday this Saturday so this is like a gift from me to you guys!

**_Warnings:_**

Blood, Violence, slight OOCness, and some fluffy Rusame.

And, I fucked up writing France's accent. D:

* * *

The Civil War still stands as the most terrible, bloodiest war in American History, cutting the land, the people, and himself in half.

It was the most painful five years of his life. The war, it was Americans killing Americans. There was no enemy from land overseas or from afar. It was brothers killing brothers, fathers killing sons.  
It hurt him to think of the two brothers who went to war, one grey and one blue.  
And only one to come home to mother.

The Confederacy was like a sword in those cool ninja movies. He was an extension of the union. He was a part of the American soul and body. Another version of the American dream. With different ideals and lifestyles, like people who didn't wet their toothbrush before putting toothpaste on. Or people who put the milk in the bowl first.  
Both of which were divorce-worthy.

Alfred could feel him, his pain.  
But he was his own person. He claimed he was anyway.  
The CSA. . .  
There were too many scars.  
To many dreams.  
Too many memories.  
_"The South will rise again!"_

**Too much.** Too much stereotyping, too much hate.  
_Why hadn't he burned this uniform?  
Why hadn't he washed it?_  
Alfred stared at the uniform, the long, grey coat, rubbing the wool between his fingers. He sniffed.  
_Why? Why did it hurt him to think of him?  
Why did he have to die?_  
Alfred's fingers tightened on the uniform, and he braced it against himself. Pulling up his knees to wrap his arms around them, the uniform between him and his legs.  
_"My legs! Oh god- help me!"_  
Tears trailed down his cheeks, and he smelled into the fabric, memories flooding back.

-x-x-x-

_Tensions were high._

He knew something was wrong the moment he awoke. He couldn't feel something- his left hip. Why? What was going on?  
America threw his legs over the side of his bed, trying to stand. Soon as he locked his knees, they buckled, Alfred collapsed, toppling over his nightstand.  
His hip burned. His heart was in an inferno. His chest seared in pain. It hurt to breathe.  
_What had happened?_  
He screamed.  
The United States of America fell to his side, panting, before everything faded to black.

He awoke, back in his bed. A damp cloth was on his forehead, the door was shut.  
_Wait._  
Why was he strapped down to the bed?_ What's going on?_  
His chest hurt. His heart. His hip.  
Pain. Burning. Fighting.

Alfred screamed, writhing in his restrains, the cloth falling away, his arms and legs thrashing, his head moving back and forth.  
_But why?  
Was it of terror? **Pain?**_  
A maid rushed in, forcing his arms back down, cooing and saying reassuring and comforting words.  
None of which making sense.  
"Why-? What's going on?! Let go of me! Let me be free!"  
The president came in, standing at the foot of his bed.  
"Alfred."  
America lifted his head, the room suddenly into focus, all on the president.  
"Why? What happened? Why am I burning?! Oh god-" he threw his head back against the pillow, breathing heavily.  
_"It hurts."_  
"What hurts?"  
"My hip- my heart- my chest, my body. . . What happened?" He look back to the president, desperate for an answer.  
"Alfred. . . You told me once that your body was the land."  
"Yeah, But- But what does that have to do with me?"  
"Alfred, South Carolina seceded earlier this morning."  
The pain only became worse.

**_April 12th, 1861_**

Screaming. Screaming and yelling, thoughts and ideals. Ways of life clashing.  
_I can't move.  
I'm in the White House.  
They're saying I'm mad.  
I'm going insane.  
Lincoln, someone, **help me!**_

**_But there was no Hero coming to rescue him._**

_"Soldier! This is no time to sleep!"_  
What?  
Where- it's snowy. . . A grey uniform? What?  
_"The Yankees are attacking, get your gun, let's go!"_  
There was a gunshot, and the man in the grey uniform gasped, falling foreword, landing on him. Why can't he shove him off? What's going on?  
Another soldier walked up to him, in a blue uniform, and pointed his gun at Him._ "Please, don't-!"_  
**Boom.**

_"Will you let me see him?"  
"Well, sir, you can try, but he's very unpredictable at the moment."  
"I can handle it."  
"Fredika? Are you in here?"_  
Ivan? Wait- no, Ivan was back in Russia. Ivan couldn't be here, no one was helping him. Why was he in a blue uniform? Why was Ivan pointing a gun at him?  
**_Boom._**

He was in a blue uniform, riding a horse. **_Boom._**  
The horse fell on its side, and threw him off. Something hit his leg. He couldn't move it.  
He fell unconscious.  
He was screaming again, being held down, a saw going through his knee.  
His heart stopped from blood-loss.

_"He yelled at me. I hope he gets better. My fleets have been very helpful, da?"_

Grey Uniform, frozen in the snow.

_"Yes, they have. England and France, their leaders decided to support the South, and I think they are doing some trading. Which-"_

Grey Uniform, crushed from a cannonball.

_"Will have to be ceased."_

_"Precisely. So, you'll make sure Napoleon isn't going to try anything, correct?"_

Blue Uniform, trapped on sinking on a union ship.

_"Da."_

___"Thank you, Russia. Your naval forces are greatly appreciated."_

Blue Uniform, killed by a Confederate Family Member.

_"Lincoln."_

_"Hm?"_

He was dying, over and over again, he kept seeing it from his soldiers views.  
Too much blood.  
Too much _American_ Blood.  
The death toll kept going up.

_"What exactly is your goal? To end the war? To end slavery?"_

_"My goal is for the **reunification** of the United States of America."_

He was still trapped in the room of the White House.  
He couldn't move. His people needed him.

Blue Uniform. 18 years old. Staring Into the face of a Confederate Soldier. He looked too young- he looked strange.  
He looked like Alfred.  
_No!  
Oh god no!  
**Boom.**_

"LINCOLN! LET ME OUT! OH GOD, LET ME OUT! THE CSA HAS AN AVATAR! LISTEN TO ME! THE CSA HAS AN AVATAR!"  
He kept screaming, frantically yelling, until someone came in, Lincoln behind him.  
_"What?"_

**_August, 1861_**

The last four months had been nothing but pain. Alfred couldn't feel his legs anymore, the south. He kept seeing himself die, over and over again. He kept seeing war and families being ripped apart, Americans killing Americans, over and over again. First South Carolina, then Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and lastly, Texas. Texas had felt like his whole right leg.  
He could walk, run, and kick ass as usual, but-  
It didn't feel right. He felt like they weren't there. Even though they were.  
The Blue and Grey coats were at war, three months in, and he had pleaded Lincoln to let him fight. He was too much of a danger in the White House, and what better place to be immortal and dangerous than on the field of war?  
He was still experiencing dementia, and his dreams kept haunting him, but he had to tough through it. No one trusted him though, in fact, at night, he was restrained to his cot. These were restraints he could break out of, but it made everyone else feel better.  
This was a war with no villain, he had long since decided. This was a war that was only bloodshed, and nothing more. It didn't matter if it was Union or Confederate blood, it was all American blood, on American soil.

The Union needed their nation, a hero.  
He was going to win this war. He had to.  
Maybe it was the only way to reclaim his sanity.  
And as far as he was concerned, he was the Union. Just, the union. there was too much to do to consider himself to be anything else.  
But more importantly, he had to find the CSA's nation.

**_February, 1863- 2 years into the War_**

Alfred continuously went up to the front line, in a blue uniform, on his own body. He was going to fight, whether or not he could feel his legs. He would fight, no matter how unstable he was.  
He could feel it, though, every bullet that struck through uniforms, every limb that was chopped off, every bit of his people's pain.  
He could hear the screams, and the hatred rutted between families as states succeeded, as he heard the agonized screams of brother killing brother, of teenagers being killed, of slaves.  
He could hear and feel everyone.  
He could feel how different the ideas and opinions were, and he felt they were tearing him apart.  
It was a pain he would never get used to. Going up close and personal, it was the only way he could find the Confederacy. And even more, when he was shot ten feet back by a cannon ball, or caught a cannon shot in his hands and threw it back, when he flipped horses, threw rifles, the shocked reactions were priceless. Anything to make the Confederacy afraid.  
Of course, this wasn't easy, showing off. But could he do it? By god he could, and he would.

**_September, 1863_**

Alfred glanced over the barricade- and finally, after years of searching, there he was.  
It looked a lot like him, and Alfred thought that was Mattie for a moment, but it couldn't be because Canada was having no part in this.  
He had pale brown hair, like it couldn't decide if it was blonde or brown. He didn't have a cowlick, like me. He wore glasses, his Glasses, his Texas.  
It was like staring at a discolored reflection of himself.  
It drove him mad. This guy was his left forearm and legs? This was the sword? This was- no- who moved his arm sometimes, making him write Confederate instead of Union?  
It was the Confederacy. His Brother. His Sword. Literally a piece of him.  
They both did the same action.  
Union jumped over the barricade, feeling bullets whiz past him, graze him. He could see his brother stop and raise his gun, pointed perfectly to shoot Alfred in the chest.  
Confederacy didn't shoot fast enough.  
Union knocked the gun into the air, grabbing the grey uniform, before turning and tossing him on the ground.  
He could feel thunder rampage by him as both sides broke line, jumping out and charging and rushing and shooting at eachother. He could hear the roars of war, the wails of pain, the screams of loss, the booms and clanging of metal.  
He could feel every life being lost.  
"Die! You Blue Yankee!"  
A yell came, snapping back to reality as a fist connected with his face, knocking him back on his back. Confederacy pounced on him, pinning him down, a knife glinting from a raised hand.  
"You first, Slave-Keeping Hillbilly!"  
Union ripped an arm free, and then slammed it into the HillBilly's gut, making him gasp and drop the knife.  
The two tussled and brawled, throwing punches and kicks, shooting racist and stereotyped insults.  
"DIE!"  
Alfred could feel something hit his legs, and watched as Confederacy fell back, clutching his knee. The union pounced, wrapping his hands around the boy's neck, suffocating him into unconsciousness.  
The CSA was his prisoner.

_Slap._  
"Name!"  
"Die!"  
_Slap._  
"Give me your name!"  
"Yankee Scum!"  
Alfred was getting tired of this. The avatar in front of him looked so young. He looked so much like Alfred, it was uncomfortable. But the eyes, they had the same intensity and burning glare that America had.  
It almost made him feel bad.  
_Almost._  
The CSA had hell to pay.  
Alfred pulled out his pistol, putting the end against the boy's forehead.  
"You will tell me your name right now or I will shoot you."  
"Then do it! What do you care? You're just a stupid Yankee!"  
"I care because you are important to me, and if I do kill you, I can keep doing it over and over again. Now," he pulled back the hammer. "Name."  
The boy hesitated, and seeming to process himself and his options.  
"Conner C. Jones, CSA."  
Conner. That was his name.  
Alfred pulled the trigger, the gun clicking, and Connor stared at him, lips parted in disbelief.  
"Now, I'm Alfred Fucking Jones, and you're why I can't feel my legs."

Alfred strapped him down, anger blocking his senses. Everything screaming in him to kill the CSA. He slapped him, punched him, left bruises and made him cough up his own blood, only for him to swallow it back up.  
But that was from the people. Alfred, He felt terrible for Conner- all he would ever know was bloodshed and war. Conner was a toddler, by country age, he was four. Humanly, Conner was 15.  
Conner was just a child.  
And Conner was going to die.  
Or maybe he should try to be friends with Conner-  
No, Conner has to die!  
Ideals at war once more.

**_March, 1865._**

The Civil War had been going on for nearly five years, and Connor was kept as his prisoner. Conner had tried to escape, multiple times, with crazy schemes, and impossible plans. But Alfred always caught him and tied him back up. And punished him.  
When a Confederate Unit ambushed, in hopes of getting Conner back, Alfred became enraged, and killed all of them.

When they did talk, he was beating Conner, or spewing insults at eachother, or he was getting information out of him by any means possible.  
At the time, he had never thought on his actions. War and rage blinded rational thinking.

As time dragged on, and the end of war drew closer, Conner warmed up to Alfred, in a strange way. He was prisoner, and Alfred did not care why. It was just that he did, and that he didn't retaliate as much.

_**April, 1865**_

Conner was taken away in a skirmish. Was Alfred pissed? Yes. But, no matter. The end of the war was on the horizon, and Conner would be back.

If anything, that he had learned from Conner, was how the South _felt._

Which, disgusted him. The CSA were traitors, and had to be taken down.

The South's aims were clear and definite, Understood in the heart and mind of every Southerner. The Confederacy wanted it's independence: It's people, struggling for their freedom, were fighting off invaders.

Invaders, who, wanted them to change. To live life like them, and conform to their ways.

The average Confederate soldier may understand little and care less about the intricates of the state's rights argument, but he did feel that he was protecting the home place against his people who wanted to despoil it, and that was enough for him.

**_May 9th, 1865_**

Grant and Lee were inside, discussing the surrender of the Confederacy. Alfred laid outside, in his bloody blue uniform, a smaller body in grey clung to him, sobbing and burying his head in Alfred's uniform, crying.  
"Alfred, _it hurts. _Everything hurts. I can't feel my body- What's happening to me? Am I gonna die? Are you going ta kill me? Oh god, Al-"

"Shhhhh, Conner, it's going to be okay. It'll be okay, I promise. After the meeting, let's go out, okay? We can be friends and live together. I can be your Big Brother, we can get to know eachother. You know, actually get to know eachother. I will never hurt you again, and we can go and ride around on our horses, and just, be happy. We can have fun, okay?"

"Pramise?"

Alfred froze- he was making a promise he couldn't keep. A hero didn't do that.  
But he had to be Conner's hero. Conner's Big Brother.  
Conner needed a hero, _right now._  
"I promise."  
The boy released a sigh, slumping and relaxing against his chest.  
Maybe they could like this. Maybe they could live together now- be friends. Maybe Conner would get to know a better lifestyle. Maybe he could do all the cool things big brother's did for their siblings. Maybe Conner could meet Canada.  
Maybe they could be happy, together, as a family.

A call of dismissal came from the meeting room, and too many things happened all at once- A great, almost uncontrollable joy swelled Alfred's chest, and he felt like he was king. He felt Conner slump and lay against him in a weird fashion.  
He felt a burning, paining, agonizing sensation cut through half of his body, stretching from his legs to across his waist, then jumping and pinning itself in his left elbow.  
_A Scar._  
**_United._**

_He could feel his legs._

Agony, Joy, Concern, all at once, The United States of America could feel it.  
Alfred tried to move, to get Conner off, but he froze when he looked at Conner.  
Conner's eyes were dull and dead, like his very soul had been sucked from his body, nor was he moving.  
Alfred knew it. He knew this would happen. He had tried to make sure he didn't feel like a complete shit when this would happen, but that had been unavoidable.  
The Confederate State of America had dissolved. He was still alive, but, he was dead, on the inside.  
Ignoring the unbearable pain form his lower half, America squeezed the boy's body in his grip, feeling tears blur his vision. He felt the boy's weakened heart beat, feel his light breath touch his skin. "Conner. . ."

"Union. Or, United States, I guess I should call you now."  
Alfred's head snapped up, the two generals standing there. He wrapped his arms around Conner, even tighter then ever. Lee stared at him, at the small body in his arms. Grant's arms were crossed, giving him a look of, _get up, you look pitiful_. Lee bent down, reaching out an arm to touch them.  
"Union. I need to take Conner back home now."  
**"No!"**  
Alfred backed himself against the wall, trying to get away from the generals. Grant on his left, Lee bent down on his right._ No- Conner was weak now._ And, that meant that Conner was his. . . And Conner. . . No one was going to take him away! Alfred stood himself up his back against the wall for support, his legs shaking, everything not make sense.  
"Conner, the CSA will stay with me! He- He's my other half! He- he- _We're United!_"

_"Alfred."_  
His head turned to Grant.  
"Give Him up. We won. There's no point in him staying around you."  
"_No!_ He belongs to me! I- I won't let you take him away from me!" Alfred secured the boy in his grip, getting away from the two generals. They stared at him for a moment, Lee getting up while Grant shook his head and sighed. "Fine then, Union. Take him with you."  
The Union scampered out, Conner still in his grip, before reaching his horse. Where Conner's was, he didn't know. Laying Conner on the back of her, he walked away from the scene, still seeing soldiers clean up.

A few units in grey were burning or burying their flags, rather then surrendering them.  
"So, I. . . Lost?"  
"Yes."  
Conner reached up, slowing undoing his hat, a pulled out a small Confederate Flag from inside. He looked at it, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.  
Alfred reached foreword, trying to take it from him, only for Conner to pull his hand away. "Alfred. . . Please. I can't. . . I can't surrender it."  
"But you lost."  
"But it's. . my flag. I- please, _let me burn it._"  
Alfred stared at him for a moment, before sighing and reaching the box of matches in his pocket, and handing them to the boy.

Days passed, and Alfred could barely stand to see Conner. His skin turned a pale white, his hair and eyes dulled, he became scrawny and skeleton like.  
Connor now shared a bed with him, and he clung to Alfred during the night. Alfred liked that. He honestly thought that if they didn't sleep together, he would disappear.  
And, One night, some time after the war, and the USA felt whole again, Connor's grip relaxed, and Connor's weight and presence vanished during the night.  
The Confederacy, it's people and lifestyle was now like the Union's.  
The CSA died.

The next morning, Alfred awoke to an empty bed, the need to use glasses, and couldn't stop crying.

**_1867_**

America hadn't gone to a World Conference six years. Four because of the war, two because his government was making sure that every bit of the Confederacy had died, smothered into the ground and left there.  
That Conner would be a forgotten bad dream, and that slaves were integrated into society.  
He felt sick. He felt mad.  
He was so uncontrollably enraged. But at what, exactly? Europe? The War? The Confederacy? Himself?  
Most of the Europeans hated him right now- and didn't even support him during the war.  
But one person did, and the conference just so happened to be in his country. But, it was so far away. . . He wished that someone would invent a way for humans, or nations, to fly. Flying- that had to be the ultimate freedom.

America stood in front of the door, shivering from the snow outside, in his blue uniform, tears freezing on his face. His uniform had blood on it, still unwashed from the war. He knew the other nations were going to ask where he had been for the past few years, and a bloody uniform would be their answer.  
He knocked, and waited, the door opening.  
The tall Russian stood there, staring at him questionably. He wore a sweater and pants, the scarf around his neck. _(That thing had to be like- a body part, almost.)_  
Alfred rushed inside without a word, wrapping his arms tightly around Ivan's neck, burying his face in Ivan's scarf. He could hear the Russian sigh, shutting the door. The scarf wrapped them, and he decided to freak about that later. Ivan grabbed the area behind his knees, trying to lift him up, and Alfred complied, latched onto Ivan like a child.  
Ivan walked over to his couch,  
"Union. . . "  
"Don't fucking call me that right now. Don't call me United or USA, or America right now. _Just don't_."  
Russia heaved a sigh for the young country, carrying him to the couch, and sitting himself down.  
"And I swear to god if you start acting all perverted or grope me I will kick the shit out of you and _leave._"  
"I did not intend to."  
_"Good._" The western country staggered a breath, burying his face in Russia's shoulder, before pulling back and taking off Texas, setting it to the side. How the hell was he suppose to handle having glasses the rest of his immortal life? They were uncomfortable and annoying!  
"I see you got glasses."  
Alfred buried his face in again, sniffing. "I don't want to talk about it."  
He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think of Texas, or Connor, the Confederacy, or anything. He didn't want to think of the blue, blood-stained uniform he was still wearing.  
Alfred breathed, snuggling up against the Russian, content.  
"Fredika, I think you are clinging too tightly. . ." Russia straightened up, unwrapping Alfred's arms and prying him off.  
America settled down next to him on the couch, sighing, burying his head in his hands. Russia shifted, reaching his arms forward, and pulling the other man against him. Russia's arm rested around the blond's shoulder, and America's head rested against his chest.  
"Scars?"  
"Too many."  
"I suppose you don't want me to see them?"  
"No."  
"May I at least know of them?"  
"Just a bunch from the war, okay? I don't want to talk about it."  
"I am going to assume it was bad?"  
"I don't want to talk about it."  
"Bad enough that you need a hug?"  
"Yeah."  
"When did someone last hug you?"  
"A while ago."  
"Do you need one now?"  
"What the fuck do you think? Of course I fucking need one."  
And they did so.

**_WORLD MEETING_**

Everyone else was already inside. He straightened his coat, and listened to the mumbles inside. America took a deep breath in, and out. He did not intend to piss everyone off and be violent.  
The door banged open as he walked in, nations turning, staring or gasping at him in his uniform.  
"And just where have you been?"  
Redcoat, America thought, seeing England standing at the head of the table, angry as ever. Alfred took a seat between Russia and France, sighing. "I've been busy."  
"What keeps someone busy for six years?"  
"The fuck do you think?" He replied, gesturing to the uniform.  
"Ah. Yes, um, When we get down with everyone else, America, we should talk about what happened to you."  
"Oh ho, the Confederacy lost, then." France whisphered smugly, leaning towards Alfred, England droning on something about taxes.  
"Yeah."  
"A shame, no? I was rooting for them, they-"  
Before Alfred could stop himself, he was standing, glaring at the Frenchmen, fists balled.  
"Do you wanna say that again, Frenchie?"  
France hesitated for a moment, before standing, returning a hard glare. "I said, my government fully supported the Confederacy, and we may have fully recognized them as a country-"  
America tackled the European to the floor, gritting his teeth, wrapping his hands around the other's throat.  
_"And furthermore-** OUI!"**_ England yelled out, and Russia moved, trying pry Alfred off, his grip refusing to let go, Germany appeared, unlatching his fingers.  
France rubbed his neck, staring at the American with a worried look.  
"What in bloody hell has gotten into you America?" England asked, coming and standing beside America on the floor.

"If you and the rest you fucking Europeans had never gone on exploration kick, none of this would have happened!" Alfred suddenly screamed, glaring at them. "Goddamn you Arthur, if you and your boyfriend there hadn't colonized me, this wouldn't have happened!"  
England paused for a moment, thinking up a come-back. "Well- Well you wouldn't have existed!"  
_"Good!"_  
Arthur stared at him, wide-eyed. Everyone stared at him. Everyone was shocked and appalled by the way he was right now.  
"You don't get it. . . You fucking redcoat. . ." Tears welled up in his eyes, but forced to keep them in, trying to retain any pride he had.  
"You- ever since you fucking found me and colonized me, you've brought nothing but pain. _I've felt nothing but pain!_ After the revolution, I was so felt confused because I was independent finally, but, I felt so powerful, because I had no one holding me back. . . And then- Native America. . . You invaded _her_ land, killed _her_ people, _her_ animals... I haven't seen her since the Indians were moved to Oklahoma... It's like when I get stable again, something decides to fuck up. . ." Alfred shuddered.

"America, it couldn't have been that horrid-"

"618,222 _million_, Arthur! That's two percent of my population! It wasn't like they were from a another country or something! They were all American! Each and every last one of them! Every single one of them were my people!" He finally felt a tear trail down his face.

"Families were split apart, fathers killed sons, brothers killed brothers. . . This- this is the first time live been able to feel my legs since 1861. . . And-" Alfred had to stable himself back on a chair, trying to stand.  
"The- the Confederacy had a nation."  
Hushed whispers of concern and _"I thought the CSA wasn't legal."_ went around the room.  
"His name was Conner C. Jones, and he died in my arms, outside the courtroom."  
"Alfred, how did the Confederacy have a nation? He wasn't a real nation."  
"They were enough of one, and they were enough to be an actual threat, that's why. Iggy- goddamned you and France."  
"What?"  
"You two betrayed me! Especially you, Arthur! And France- you motherfucker- I'll get to you in a second. But England- But you helped the South instead! And you know who, out of all you, helped me?"  
There was a dead pause, the air thickening with hate and guilt as Alfred's finger raised, pointing at Russia.  
"_Him!_ Out of everyone! He's practically half a world across ocean and land from me! While you two- my own Dad, betrayed me! When are you just going to stop being an asshole to everyone you meet, England?! Let's tax my little colony, let's make him have more laws, drink a cuppa tea, allegiance to the king! Yeah?!"  
An offended look danced onto to England's face, and he approached Alfred, reaching foreword to lay a hand on him. Alfred slapped his hand away, then punched England's chest, sending the Brit back a few steps.  
"Don't- Don't you fucking touch me! I hate you England! I hate you and every god damned tea-drinking asshole in your entire country!"

America suddenly turned to France now, his glare on the man. "And you- don't think I'm not pissed off with you! You- you perv, I know why you sold me the Louisiana purchase! You had so many riots in Haiti, from the slaves you brought there, that you pretty much gave up that land! You thought that the same thing would happen with the slaves you sold in my country, so you sold that land to me! Your leaders have been practically waiting on taking me!"  
France's mouth gaped, an offended look on his face.

"Now hold up wanker- we were _neutral_ during the war! We were just doing trades! And the Confederacy- we were just getting cotton from them! Now stop acting like a child and-"  
America could feel himself lunge at England, everything going blurry and nothing making sense. He just felt so angry, he felt like crying and confessing just how much pain he felt. He felt stupid. His legs burned.  
Next thing he knew, Russia had his arms wrapped tightly around him, holding his arms to his side. Russia's legs wrapped around him as well, restraining his legs and keeping him from thrashing. They were both sitting on the floor, America's chest heaving, tears burning his face, blurring his vision, streaming down his face.  
**_"You will always be divided. You will always feel conflicted and confused. That is your curse."_**  
_"Shut up! Just shut up!"_  
Slap.  
America's head was twisted to the left, and he looked back, seeing Germany crouched in front of him, a hard, stern look on his face.  
"America."  
He choked. Who was he anymore? Land of the Free? Land of the Secede?  
"Alfred. You must calm down, now. Now, look, I know you've been through rough times lately- but,"  
"Lately?! You don't get it- The United States of America dissolved! And-"  
Russia clamped a gloved hand over his mouth, silencing him.  
"That doesn't matter- you're acting like a dumkof, and you are making a fool of yourself." Germany said sternly, standing up. "Now, Russia, keep holding him down until the meeting is over. We are all going to get back in our seats, and we are going to talk calmly and one at a time."  
Everyone shuffled and moved, Russia getting up, uncurling his legs and standing, not releasing his arms. America felt the Russian sit down in a seat, then crossed his legs again.  
Oh god- he felt so stupid and degraded.  
"Anyone have any questions for America, that won't provoke anyone? And raise your hand."  
England raised his hand first, speaking. "Alfred, tell me, who is mad right now? And who are you right now?"  
"What?"  
"Are you United? Union? Confederacy? Or are you Alfred?"

The blond fell silent, trying to think. "I- I don't know. I don't know, dammit! I'm not entirely sure who I am right now! And who's mad? I don't know. I just don't know. I think it's the Confederacy. I mean- I tried, the Union, we didn't agree with how they lived. . . And right now, we're still trying to piece ourselves back together. . . And Conner. . . He left a scar. From dying."

"Alfred."  
America looked up, seeing it was Germany who spoke. "Tell us about Conner. You said he was the CSA, Ja? What was he like? What happened to you when the CSA rose?"

Alfred's head laid back, feeling Russia's chest heave, and grip loosen the slightest. "His name. . . His name was Conner C. Jones. Conner- well, when South Carolina Seceded, I lost feeling to a part of my left hip. And then, by the end on the year, I couldn't feel my legs. . . At all. I mean, I could still walk and run, but I didn't feel them. I didn't need glasses. . ." Alfred noticed he was losing track of his words. "And right now, I can't feel anything below my left knee, but- that's from the people. A lot of soldiers, they had wounds so bad, that a lot of them lost a body part, and I can feel it."  
He had to look so weak to them, didn't he?

"Conner. . . When Conner died, he was 15, by human age. By nation age, he was Four. Conner- I mean, he was just a kid. . . And, he had dusty brown hair, but without Nantucket, and brown eyes too, he wore glasses. We met on the battle field. We tried to beat eachother, beat the shit out of eachother. . . And we flung insults." Alfred paused, his throat heating up and his eyes burning. "When I think about him, it just makes me feel terrible. . . Because all he ever knew was war and bloodshed. And, when the CSA surrendered, just minutes before it was official, I was holding him outside the room they were meeting in." His head slumped, gaze going to his lap. "Conner. . . I wish I could have done more. He was just in so much pain. He was crying. And, I- I never got to know him. I was just such an asshole to him-"

He ended up retelling all the bloodshed, all the lives lost, he told them about his legs and Conner. He spoke, and he was sure they wouldn't look at him the same again.

"I- I don't like this. I don't like this. . . Why does war hurt so much? Why does it have to be so. . . Unfair? And painful?"

"Alfred."

"What?"

_"Welcome to being a Nation."_

-x-x-

Alfred sniffed again, folding the uniform back up, placing the picture on top. closing the lid of the chest, he sighed, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. On the table next to the door, he picked up the phone, and dialed a number. He waited for three rings, and then the other side answered.  
"Da?"  
"Rus- Ivan."  
"You tried cleaning again, didn't you?"  
"Yeah. . ."  
"Alfred. I told you, if you're going to clean up that room, have someone there with you."  
"Yeah yeah, just look, can you come over?"  
"You want me to drop everything i'm doing, pack a two-night bag, book a flight to your house, cross about seven timezones, and come over at six in the morning, because you need some moral support?"  
"Yes."  
_"I'll be right over."_

* * *

_***EDIT***_

**A/N:**

Okay, first, history for you. *Confetti*

- Although the exact number is not known, approximately** 60,000 surgeries,** about three quarters of all of the operations performed during the war, were **_amputations._** While it seemed to be drastic, amputations were intended to prevent deadly complications such as gangrene. Some of these were preformed without anesthesia, in some cases leaving the patient with painful sensations in the severed nerves. ("Ghost Pains")  
The removal of a limb was widely feared by soldiers.  
In fact, I remember watching Civil War Journal once, and this little girl, who helped with First Aid a lot, within her own home, she wrote that there was a pile of limbs in the corner.

- Ladies and Gentlemen, I did not learn of this until about a month ago myself.  
Russia was the only country that out rightly supported the Union. France and England were neutral- and leaning towards recognizing the Confederacy by mediating "peace talks"- they were all too pleased if their upstart rival across the Atlantic was permanently weakened by his divided house. They sympathized strongly with the CSA- so strongly they had considered recognizing it as a country, and intervening for independence by force.  
America said to them that is they did intervene, that was a declaration of war against the USA.

- I had America call England a Redcoat, because during the Revolutionary War, that was the nickname for British Soldiers. The Civil War broke out less than 100 years after the USA won the Revolution, so, yeah.

The fact that Russia wouldn't go along kind of stopped them- especially France, where Napolean was keen to sink his teeth into the Americas. Quite a number of British politicians were for the South, although average people weren't because it upheld slavery.  
Russia, on the other hand, got along well with America _precisely_ because they both had rather strained relationships with the British and French empires. Russia was the first nation to gain most-favoured nation trading status with America.  
The two countries generally had very good ties before Russia became the Soviet Union.

**What happened to Alfred? D: That was soooo sad! D:**

Okay, I had three different things happen to him, pulled together from different ideas of myself and others.

Personally, I believe that Alfred has the strongest ties to his nation and his people.

_His Legs_

This ties to the, Country's Land = Nation's Body  
His legs would be the south, because that is the lower half of his body. And. . . I've met people who can walk, but have no feeling in their legs. There's so much you can't do.

_Alfred:_

This actually came from kelbora on Tumblr, and when I saw her theory, I just knew I _had_ to involve it.

Link to Full Theory: (Remove the spaces): kelbora. tumblr post/ 29764892003 /since-you-brought-up-your-idea-of-alfreds-mental-state

Alfred had multiple forms of dementia all at once. His awareness fluctuated between his physical present (in a locked room in Washington), to an active battlefield anywhere in the country, to aboard Union or Confederate warships somewhere in the Atlantic.  
His memory would be compromised, he would have no concept of time, and he would have little sense of identity as well…  
Given how deeply tied to his people Alfred is (closer on a personal level than most of his kind, at least) he would have taken those tolls very personally.  
Alfred might have mentally transposed himself as having become some of the soldiers fighting on either side and that he might not have been so consumed by the experience that he would have completely dissociated himself as himself… but as whatever human he had taken the identity of and thus their subsequent fate (for example, if that soldier died then he would suffer that death in whatever manner it happened). That in mind… at this point in my head-canon he still didn't know that avatars couldn't "die" as humans did…he won't know that for many more decades until WWI. ):  
Think of how terrifying that had to have been, _dying over and over and over again,_ and constantly reliving hundreds of thousands of peoples' final moments as though they were your own.

_CSA Avatar:_

I have seen this, more than once. I have seen this in different forms, some where the CSA was an Identical Twin, some where it was a girl, some where Alfred killed him.  
When it comes to hetalia OCs, I try to make them as historically accurate as possible, like a person from that time. With Conner, I made him a 15 year old, because the minimum age to fight was 18, but, a lot of kids looked forward to fighting in the war and being involved in it. Like, in a 2nd Grade math book, from the South, one of the questions was:

_"If it takes one Yankee to kill 8 Confederate Soldiers, how many Confederate Soldiers does it take to kill 10 Yankees?"_

Kids _wanted_ to be involved in the war, and I still have conflicted feelings on that.

I gave Conner an accent, and I made him look similar, but different from Alfred.  
With Conner, I believe that the two would have been deeply connected, like a twin-telepathy, almost.

**A/N 2:**

Anyone who finds mistakes gets a hug.

If there is some historical thing I did not explain, again, let me know.

**A/N 3:**

Interesting how this has 1000 views, (Which is a first for me and I greatly appreciate it.) but only 8 favs, 11 follows, and 8 reviews.  
Is it that bad guys, or what?

listen. I need to know how you felt while reading. _I need to know._

Also, after Germany's Scars, we will have Japan's Hiroshima, and then- Strange Rules During World Meetings, or, The Italy Bros favorite video games, for apologizes for all the feels.

**Next HeadCanon:**  
_Germany's Scars_

___(Hopefully.)_


	5. Germany's Scars, Part 1, Gerita Angst

**Chapter 5: Headcanons Twelve Through Sixteen**

Germany's Scars

**_HeadCanons:_**

**HeadCanon 12;**

After WW2, Germany had to get mental help because he developed PTSD at some point after the war.

**HeadCanon 13;**

After WW2, when the people of Germany were literally washing bricks and rebuilding their cities, Germany spent his days helping out, it wasn't until after this he developed PTSD.

**HeadCanon 14;**

Like America, Germany has nightmares and flashbacks about the war. This is when Italy started sleeping in bed with Germany on a regular basis.

**HeadCanon 15;**

Germany actually has very many scars on his body, and refuses to go shirtless or be unclothed because of it. He isn't proud of his scars, and hates looking in the mirror after he gets out of the shower or anything.

**HeadCanon 15.5;**

Italy is the only person to have seen his scars, and Italy is also the only person that knows about them. This is because he trusts and has such a bond with Italy that he let Italy see them.

**HeadCanon 16;**

Italy may have the killer(?) or soldier instinct that Germany has tried to barrel into him. Despite him being a complete softy, he would do anything to save Germany. Or his friends, for that matter.

**Characters:**

_Germany, Italy_

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia._

**A/N:** I apologize for the terrible accents. I partially decided to go "Fuck it." And got lazy on those. **Also, warnings for violence, feels, slight OOC Italy, and post-war Germany.**

* * *

Italy drove home in the Italian Style, the Drunk German in the passenger seat falling unconscious from his driving skills.

When he reached Germany's house, he locked Drunk Germany up in Germany's bedroom, barricading the door with a chair. It was his protocol. He knew Sober Germany's rules, and just how serious he was about them. Of course, part of him wanted to throw these rules away and have fun with Drunk Germany, but Drunk Germany wasn't that kind of person, or had the same idea of fun.

Italy left the hallway, entering the kitchen, and checked the refrigerator, going over the list.

Rules on Handling Drunk Germany

_**Eine, **get Drunk Germany home._

_**Zwei, **Lock Drunk Germany in his room._

_**Drei, **when the yelling dies down, or it sounds like Drunk Germany is calm, go into the room._

_**Vier,** Make sure Drunk Germany didn't brake anything._

_**Fünf, **do not let Drunk Germany touch you or force you into anything sexual. You may run or retaliate. Do not let him touch you._

_**Seches,** Do not put yourself in danger._

Now sitting on the couch, Feliciano had become quiet, listening, waiting for the German's yelling to die down. It was in rushed, angry German, and such yelling had long since become a white noise. He stared at the Snake Venom, said bottle on the coffee table. He should never let Germany drink it again- bad things tended to happen.

An uncomfortable silence filled the house, and he stood. He hated quiet. The stillness- it reminded him of things un-pasta related and more war related. Italy walked down the hall to the room, taking away the chair and unlocking the door. Opening it, slowly and with the smallest creak, peeked into the room. Germany seemed to slumber, an arm hanging off the side of his bed. He was shirtless, and the Italian suddenly felt very hot and- _No._

Italy slinked across the room, and laid a hand on Germany's arm, lifting it up, gently.

But the arm grappled itself onto his wrist, and Italy pulled back, but to no avail.

"Germany-"

_"Oh Italien. . . Es ist schön, dich zu sehen."_

Italy tugged back, but the blond's grip only tightened. He looked up at the Italian now, and Italy's breath hitched.

Germany's blue eyes were dark, confused, yet somehow focused. But focused in a way Sober Germany was not. The Italian cried out, wrenching his arm free, and running out. He could hear shuffling, followed by stomping, chasing after him.

_"Kommen hier wenig Italienisch! Sie nicht eine Umarmung wollen?"_

"Nonononono!" Italy cried, turning the corner, and finding himself in the Kitchen. He turned around, Drunk Germany creeping towards him, smiling. He soon found himself backed up against the counter, Germany with his arms looped around his waist,trapping him.

_"Sie sind so schön, Italien. Was ist unter diesen Kleidern?"_

Italy was becoming frantic- what if Drunk Germany started testing his boundaries? His gaze travelled up to the frying pans hanging from hooks off the ceiling. He cried out, a hand stroking his curl.

A finger tugged at his pants. Italy screamed. He reached up, grabbing a pan, and bringing it down on the German's head. Drunk Germany fell back- face forward, and out cold on the floor. Italy panted, his gaze trailing to the German, He dropped the pan, hearing it clatter against the tile floor.

_Ludwig was in his boxers. And Feli was in the same room._

_But no one was smiling._

Italy crouch down next the the unconscious German, surveying his body.

He felt like he couldn't breathe.

_**Scars.**_

They were on his arms- his legs- his chest and stomach. Some were small and faded, others were long and trailing. The biggest and loudest, though, were on his torso. A long, jagged line that travelled down his spine, two deep cuts across his mid-section, and deep scarring across his chest. Italy's eyes travelled to his face.

His face looked pretty okay- but their was a pileup of sweat on his brow and forehead. Something looked wrong about it. . .

Like a woman's blush coming off from moisture.

Italy felt like he was suffocating on his own air, taking his thumb, he wiped off a line of sweat, then rubbed his palm across the German's forehead.

He recoiled.

One scar, across the blond's forehead. It was thin, easy to conceal with makeup.

Italy sighed, glancing at the residue on his hand, before wiping it off on his pants. "Oh, god. . . Germany. . . why didn't you tell me? These. . ." He could feel himself choking on his words. No- not now. He needed to get Garmany back to his room.

The Italian hooked his elbow's under the German's armpits, dragging him back to his room and laying him back down.

The next morning, the scars were still fresh on his mind. He went into the kitchen for breakfast, and Germany was already at the stove, cooking morning sausage and eggs. His back was turned, all attention on the stove. Italy sat down at the table.

"Did he do anysing?"

The question was automatic, not even a 'Good morning, Italy.' Just flat and emotionless, the voice of giving out orders.

"Well, he chased me around and yelled at me in German. He pinned me down and-" At this, Germany turned, staring at him. "Did he. . . Touch you?"

"He tried to~"

Germany looked down, turning back to the stove. "Zorry."

Italy shrunk in his seat, an awkward smile appearing on his face.

"Well- on the bright side, he cornered me in the kitchen, so I was able to knock him out Hungary style, with a frying pan and all, and when he was unconscious- he wasn't wearing his shirt. Or. . . his pants."

Germany flinched, whipping around and staring at Italy like he was diseased. The German's face grew pale, and his eyes bore into the Italian.

"Doitsu. . . What happened to you?"

"Italy," Germany started, using the tone of voice that was similar to sending a soldier to their last battle. Serious, regret, stern and flat. "You didn't zee anysing, understand?"

The blond had made Italy keep many secrets over the years, like where he kept the emergency keys, where Germany kept his condoms, how he cooked his wurst, how Drunk Germany acted, and various little secrets. But this- this was too serious. All those scars, they needed to be talked about.

"But Germany-"

"I said, 'you didn't zee anytsing.'"

Italy stood from his seat, the chair squeaking loudly and falling back on the floor. His hands smacked on the table, and Italy's gaze met with the larger nation.

"No, Germany, I saw everything! I saw them _all! _Those- those aren't okay! Where did you get them? Who did those to you?! How did you get them?!" The Italian yelled, making Germany look up from his sudden outburst, shocked for a moment, then his expression turning back into the default look of seriousness.

"Zat iz none of your concern."

"But-"

"I said, it iz none of your concern."

"Germany!"

"NIEN!"

_"Ludwig Beilschmidt!"_

Germany paused, setting down his cooking utensil and turning off the stove. "Vhy do you vant to know zo badly?"

What he wanted to yell was, '_Because I care about you!'_ But he couldn't force the words out. How would Germany react to that?_ Awkwardly? Disbelief? Some emotion that would ruin their relationship **forever?**_

He wanted nothing more than to hug the German before him and never let go. To be by his side and stick with him forever. To comfort him, be there for him.

"Because. . . Because you're my _friend_. And- I care about my friends." It left a bitter taste in his mouth, saying that. Why couldn't he ever just tell him? Tell him how much he cared for Germany- how he wanted to be more than friends. To be something much closer than friends.

But he was so unsure. What if Germany didn't feel the same?

"You vouldn't be able to handle it."

There he was- trying to tell him he was too weak. When would Germany understand that he was simply lazy, not weak? Sure, he was a runner and would rather cook pasta than fight, but he had to _know. _He had to know who or _what_ had done this to Germany. To _his_ Germany.

"Doitsu, please. Just tell me."

"Vhy should I?"

"Because I have to know! Doistu, please!"

"Nein. And that is final."

"But-"

"Go to your room!" Germany yelled, his voice entering a lethal tone, and the Italian flinched, before scurrying down the hall and locking himself in his room.

The German sighed, the silence in the room closing in on him, but stopped by the sound of wurst boiling.

Italy sat in the corner of his room, his knees pulled up to his chest. He sat there, staring at the floorboards, sniffing and close to tears. He wanted to _know_. He wanted to help Germany. He wanted to comfort and be comforted.

Most nations had had their moments when they had been absolutely out of their minds. For various reasons in their history, and when you reflected everything about your country- it was hard to think straight. Soviet Russia, the USSR, who had constantly looming over the rest of Europe. _(Or, when was Russia **not** out of his mind?)_, America's Civil War_ (and after such events, he found that even mentioning it was one of the Westerner's triggers.)_, his own fall of Rome, Nazi Germany, and various others.

Like America, where everyone had different opinions, the Coast States and the Inner States, Democratic or Republican. Honestly It made Italy wonder how such a person _wasn't_ as crazy as Russia, with so many conflicts, and so much violence and gun laws.

Maybe he just ignored his sorrows in video games and McDonalds?

Maybe he should ask him sometime. . .

But Germany. . .

Nazi Germany wasn't fun either. Nazi Germany _hated him, _even used him as a puppet. There were many different views on that side of the blonde, ranging from- _"He was a monster." _to_ "Mislead and Brainwashed."_

Feliciano hated voicing his opinion about it, because- _"You were his puppet, his propaganda dump!" _and his opinion would be tossed out.

Italy clearly remembered the propaganda posters, one of them saying-_ "Germany is truly your friend!"_ with a smiling soldier, reaching out with his hand.

Nazi Germany always stared at him with a glare that could bring a wolf to submission. Judged him and scolded him like a student at a strict school.

Nations were affected by the feelings and thoughts of their people. And Nazi Germany. . . It hurt Italy to think of him. Hilter had brainwashed his people, restricted them and let them only hear Nazi propaganda, and not following the ideology meant you were executed.

It hurt Italy to have seen him. To see what Germany was _**doing.**_

It hurt to even think about it.

Germany would disappear for days, months even, invading Europe. Every time that Germany returned, and Italy returned from battles in various parts of Africa, Germany seemed different each time.

Italy honestly could not recall a time that Germany was home from war, and didn't have a beer in arms-reach. That was when Italy really got to know 'Drunk Germany.'

Italy shivered. So many fell to their knees at the Military of Nazi Germany. Austria was first, in 1938. A year later, Poland's capital fell, and they tossed the nation between Germany and Russia.

Germany had still been himself by then, for the most part.

1940 had to be the worst year, though. Germany was off giving England hell, blockading and raiding the country. Belgium, Netherlands, The Channel Islands, Romania, Luxemburg, Hungary, and even France fell to Germany or joined the Axis that year. By the end of the of year, Germany's house was so crowded, but the German himself was rarely home. He had felt so alone- without Germany home, and nine other countries he barely even liked staying there.

Even when Germany failed invading the Soviet Union that year, he didn't come home.

Over time, Italy began questioning Germany's motive. Too many people were dieing. Once, even not letting Germany arrest Jewish Refugees in Italy.

At the time, he had no idea what Germany was doing to them. He knew he was kidnapping the Jews, taking them to jails, but no more than that.

On 24 July 1943, after the Allied landings in Sicily, the Grand Fascist Council, on a motion by Dino Grandi, voted a motion of no confidence in Mussolini. Mussolini's position had been undermined by a series of military defeats from the start of Italy's entry into the war in June 1940, including the bombing of Rome, the loss of the African colonies and the Allied invasions of Sicily and the southern Italian peninsula.

The next day, The Southern King dismissed Mussolini from office and ordered him arrested.

Such failed war efforts left Mussolini humiliated at home and abroad as a "sawdust Caesar".

_And that made Italy happy._

The new government, under Marshal Pietro Badoglio, began secret negotiations with the Allied powers and made preparations for the Italian surrender to the Allies. These talks implied a commitment from Badoglio, not only to leave the Axis alliance- but also,

**_for Italy to declare war on Germany._**

At first, it struck him to think of such things, but, by this time, the general Italian population, including the monarchy, the Northern officials, basically everyone- had grown tired of the futile war effort which had driven Italy into subordination and subjugation under Nazi Germany.

And, well, Feli was tired of it too.

And War seemed to be the only way he could save Germany- from the bloodshed, from the fighting, from _himself._

He had just wanted Germany to return to _himself_. He wanted Germany to be okay again, to come home and not leave for war.

Italy was able to get into German Territory within a few months after the war ended. He felt like he was leaving his land in good hands- free of Nazi Occupation. It felt good, not fighting. He had literally walked there, all the way from Rome. Why he did that part was beyond him.

But what he walked into when he entered German cities was bad too.

Most of his cities were reduced to rubble, the transportation system in shambles, his countryside strewn with wandering Displaced Persons. So many Germans, now homeless.

**1945 to 1951, Germany**

_White flags hung out of windows. White flags. **In Germany.**_ He passed through many villages on the way, many of them adorning the flag of surrender. The landmarks on the way to Germany's home destroyed, and causing him to be lost. He stopped, asking directions from a group of young German soldiers - in uniform but disarmed and apparently plodding along on their way home - a half-dozen young men, courteous, giving him directions as best they could, -showing no trace of hatred or resentment, or of being whipped in battle. They looked like farmers' sons.

The town Germany lived in was in the same town as Hitler's headquarters.

The winding, stone-paved road up the mountain side to the town was filled with American military vehicles - jeeps and trucks filled with soldiers, WACS, and Army nurses.

Italy dared not ask why they were there- he was too tired, and he thought it was better to stay away from the Americans.

He found that Hitler's quarters and the surrounding buildings had been heavily bombed - gutted, roofs fallen, in ruins. Craters from misses dotted the nearby hillsides. The pine forest around the buildings was stripped of limbs-trunks broken off, split, shattered.

He only grew more concerned the deeper he went into the city.

Groups of soldiers stared at him as he passed by, but made no gesture. Italy could detect neither friendship nor hostility. In every instance where he asked directions, they responded with courtesy.

He climbed up over rubble to a gaping doorway, still trying to find Germany's house. He was sure he was on the same street- everything was so ~unrecognizable.~ A few yards up the road, he saw a German officer, _(Not Ludwig- to his disappointment.)_ salute an American officer who passed nearby, bowing his head slightly as he did so. The American officer sauntered by, obviously taking no notice whatever, although the German held the salute until he had passed.

_He would never forget their expressions._

He cried when he finally found Ludwig's personal home. It was like so many other homes- impossible for someone to live there.

That meant that, Ludwig was _lost. _Ludwig had no where to return to- and he had no way to find Ludwig.

He ran from the house, emotions between frustration and agony conflicting and hurting his insides. But. . . Germany had _used_ him.

_Why was he caring so much about the blond?_

_Why did he-_

**_Crash!_**

A young girl's scream filled his ears, and Italy scrambled up, rushing apologizes spilling out of his mouth, in German, and in Italian.

"I'm so sorry- I did not mean to a run into you!"

"We're leaving right now sir-"

_"What?"_

The girl and him stared at each other, before he bent down, helping her grab- Toys? Food? Family Photos?

What was going on? Was her family moving?

"Bambina, why are you taking things out of your house?"

"My mom says we have to leave."

"Why?"

_"Because the Americans are moving in."_

Italy paused, before understanding, glancing at the girl's house. It was still in livable condition. He had seen this happen in other villages. When the American Army moved into an occupied village, the most desirable houses were selected and the occupants ordered out. They were permitted to take their clothing and certain household utensils and furniture - not essential furniture or beds. Where they go for food or shelter is considered none of the conquering army's concern.

"Ah. I am sorry for that- are you alright? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, but- you sound funny when you talk. Where are you from?"

For a moment, Italy paused, not sure on how to answer that. "Far away."

"Are you with the Americans?"

"No, I'm from. . . the south."

"Why did you come here?"

"I'm looking for my friend. He's really tall, blonde, blue eyes, do you know what happened to him?"

"You mean Old Lud?"

Old Lud? Was that what the children had called Ludwig? But- that meant this girl knew where Germany was! "Yes, him! Do you know what happened to him?"

She sighed, her head shaking._ "Hauptschuldige."_

_A Catagory 1. **Major Offender. **Subject to immediate arrest, death, imprisonment with or without hard labour, plus a list of lesser sanctions._

He nearly collapsed. Germany may be imprisoned. He could be working somewhere, far away.

What could they be doing to him? He found himself gripping the girl's shoulders, not noticing the scared expression on her face.

"Did they already take him away? Do you know where? Please- I need to know!"

Realizing that he was scaring her, he released her, backing away and rushing out apologizes again.

Three people came out of the house. A woman, who he assumed was the mom, and behind her, were two young boys, no more than eight. He could not see any hostility in her eyes as he met her gaze, simply sadness and acceptance. Her boys stole glances at him, angry and a little frightened, like children who had been unfairly punished. Their arms were full of childhood belongings or light articles they were carrying out to help their mother.

_Where was the father?_

The mother and the girl exchanged words in rushed German- too fast for him to catch it, and the girl looked back at him.

"I don't know. Sorry."

So, Ludwig was lost. Truly _lost. _He walked away from the family, not looking back as they loaded their belongings and left.

Italy wondered if he would ever see the German again- he would, wouldn't he?

He turned his head, seeing posters put up by the Americans. There were pictures of bodies, nude and battered. They had captions, but he couldn't read them. He ripped it off the pole, folding it and sticking it in his pocket.

He had no idea where to go now. Back home? But what about Germany? Stay? No- that was suicide. What-

"Italy, dude, _what are you doing here?_"

Italy whipped around, seeing the American in his bomber jacket. "America? What are you doing here?"

"I asked you first." He stopped, arms-reach from the Italian. The small smirk that laced his lips made Italy uncomfortable. What was there to smirk about?

"I. . . I'm looking for Ludwig. America, you didn't-"

The smirk disappeared. "No. Ludwig is a Major Offender. But, because of his. . . _condition_. I'm managing myself."

Italy found himself with a growing ball of joy in his chest. Also one of anger.

"Where is he? Is he still here? Is-"

"Dude." America grabbing his wrists. Apparently, his fingers had latched onto the American's arms. "Look. If you calm down, I'll tell you." Italy eased his fingers, relaxing. "Just- why do you want to see him? He used you, you know."

Italy grow uncomfortably silent. "I. . . I know he used me as a puppet. But. . . Nobody picked on me while he was around. And- I just want to know he's okay." Was that an excuse? Or Truth?

He was answered with silence. America looked like he was mulling over his choices and actions. "You know, my soldiers are suppose to have very little interaction with the population."

"But I'm not one of your Soldiers."

"Fair point."

"But. . ." Italy paused, wondering how he should say this. "How. . . How-a are you managing him? Ludwig himself?"

"Well- he is a Major Offender. But- after some _discussing_. . . We decided that he would help more with the people."

"Can I come see him?"

The Westerner cringed. "Well. . . not for long. But- yeah." The American turned, walking down the street, expecting him to follow.

_And he did._

The ball of joy and conflicting emotions only rose up more the farther they walked, deeper into the city. They stopped in front of one of the houses that were still standing, surrounded by debris. Men were throwing various objects out of windows, Italy saw broken vases, a teddy bear adorning the Nazi symbol, books written in German.

America picked up one of the books, flipping through the pages, then cringed, disgusted. Italy assumed it was one of the pro-nazi books. Many of which were sure to be burned or destroyed.

Dropping the book, America opened to the door, And the two stepped inside.

Germany was sitting at the table, fully clothed. He was wearing a dirty, long sleeve shirt, and long pants. He could see gauze peeking out from under his shirt, and a bandage covered his forehead. Several soldiers lingered in the room, either keeping an eye on Germany, or passing from room to room, with papers and other things.

"Germany- You're okay!" Italy began rushing at him, intent on wrapping him into a hug and taking him home.

The blond's head turned to him, and he stopped in his tracks, barely out of arms-reach.

_Forlorn, hopeless, guilty, empty, defeated, acceptance, there were so many words to describe the expression on Germany's face, and **not one of them would fit.**_

It broke his heart.

Germany's once focused and fighting blue eyes were now blank, like a great atrocity had drowned his very soul and broken him down. The eyes of someone who had lost too _much._

"Germany..."

The blond backed his chair away from the table.

"Everyone_ out,_" he heard America say, making all the soldiers leave the room, and closed the door, leaving the Italian and the German alone. America went back out the front door, like he was about to make something happen.

Italy felt like he was suffocating again. _"Germany. . ." _The words came out hoarse and rough. Italy wasn't sure what to say- _Are you okay? _No- that was stupid. Germany obviously _**wasn't** okay._

_"Italy. . ."_

Yep- okay, yep. There it was, his heart being ripped out of his chest, stomped on, then shoved back down his throat. He leaped, unable to stop himself, and landed on the German's lap, hearing the blond hiss. His arms wrapped around the man's neck his face burying itself in the crook of Germany's neck.

"Italy. . . _Please_, get off."

_"No."_ He just wanted to hold the German close and not let go of him. He wanted to take Germany back home, or just somewhere far away where they could live together forever. No war, no fighting, no pain, just the two of them.

His ideology was snuffed out quickly.

"You're in a lot of pain, ve?"

_"Ja."_

"Is there anything I can do?"

_"Nein."_

So there he was, offering to take Germany home, offering Germany help, when the Germany was beaten and battered-

and he was _denying _it?

"But Germany-"

_"Italy."_

His head lifted up, meeting gazes with the German. "But, why? Germany- I walked here! All the way from Rome, _I **walked** here!_"

"I am _guilty._ My nation, as ja _whole_, iz guilty. I deserve what is happening to me."

"But- forcing people out of their homes? A questionnaire? What kind-"

"My people have committed crimes against humanity, Italy. You need to go _home_. You do not need-"

_"Yes I do!"_ He yelled at the German, anger lacing into his voice. "Germany, I've watched you, ever since this war started! I am not going to leave you alone now!"

_ Silence._

"I don't want you to be alone. I don't want to be alone. . . Fratello is still mad at me. . . My goverment is still trying to string itself back together. We're both having rough times right now, aren't we?"

_A nod._

"I don't think I hate you, Germany. My people and my government, possably. I've been tired of this war for too long, Germany. And- while I was a puppet state to Nazi Germany. . ."

"Sorry." The German said, his gaze casting down.

"The Allies and Graziani, they'ra making me all better!" A small smile flashed onto his face as he continued, before disappearing. "And Germany, right now. . I think I should to help you- not as Italy. _As Feliciano._ You're being restrained and punished. . . but, no one to keep you in good spirits. Or sane." He paused. "Do you get what I'm saying?"

The German stared at him, his face briefly returning to that cold, hard look he was used to, before returning to the forlorn one. "Ja. I see."

"So, can I stay with you?"

_Hesitation. _"Ja."

Feli smiled, about to speak again, before the door opened.

"Come on Lud. Time to help clean."

It was America.

Feliciano was unlatched from the German, and the two stood by eachother. Germany began walking out, and he quickly fell into step behind him.

And so, Feliciano stayed by Ludwig's side. He trusted his country was in good hands, as long as the war was over, and the Republic was gone, he was okay.

Ludwig, despite being classified as a Major Offender, his punishment was special.

Rather than imprisonment, or execution-

_He was forced to watch his people. Watch_ as Germans poured in from various parts of Europe, _know_ that his Brother was at the mercy of the USSR, _feel_ as the United States pursued a vigorous program to harvest all technological and scientific know-how, as well as all patents, _watch_ his scientist disappear to either the USSR or the USA. _Feel_ his media being censored.

_**Know**_ that millions of German POWs were used as forced labor, both by the Western Allies and the Soviet Union

He helped his people rebuild.

And Feli stayed by his side. He helped wash bricks, trying to rebuild. He comforted Ludwig when he broke. He help families with their things. He helped Ludwig keep his sanity.

Whatever Feliciano could do to help Ludwig.

And for some reason, he kept memos. Posters and pamphlets that the Americans, using German Press, hung up, depicting what had gone on in the camps, captioning: _"These atrocities: Your Guilt."_ or**_ "YOU ARE GUILTY OF THIS!" _**_(This was a program conducted to acquaint ordinary Germans with what had taken place in the concentration camps.)_

He was beside Germany when films were made and screened to the public, showing the concentration camps, such as Die Todesmühlen, released in the U.S. zone in January 1946, and a few others.

At one point, when he asked America **_why, _**_why was he doing all this,_ he had told him, "To shake and humiliate the Germans and prove to them beyond any possible challenge that these German crimes against humanity were committed and that the German people – and not just the Nazis and SS – bore responsibility."

At one point, bodies were hauled in from Concentration Camps on trucks, forced to be shown to the public.

_There was one time, however, when Ludwig had told him not to come._

_**"Time to go."**_

America had been at the door, with a voice like he was delivering final judgement.

A crowd of people slowly walking in one direction behind him. Ludwig had stepped out the door, and Feliciano quickly went into step behind him, intent on not leaving the blond. America shook his head, walking down the street, waiting for Germany to follow.

Ludwig turned around, staring down at him. There was a dead, fearful look in the German's eyes, like he was heading toward an impending doom. (He had grown used to this look, but there was something different about it this time.)

It physically hurt him to see his friend like this. "Ludwig-?"

"Feliciano. _Stay._"

"But-"

"Just please- don't fight me on this. You need to _stay._ Vere I am going. . . You do not need to see."

Feli hesitated for a moment, before nodding.

Ludwig returned two days later, and wouldn't speak of where he had been.

Italy dared not to ask, either.

_They always slept together now._

When they were alone, he was either comforting Ludwig, or sitting in silence with him. When they had it, they would sit at the table and drink. _(Feli had accustomed to the taste of beer, anything to get his mind off what was going on.)_

Sometimes Germany had nightmares about being in combat. The man next to him being shot dead, or of a young child having his legs blown clean off._ (Near the end of the war, Germany let children as young as ten and twelve enter the war.)_

Feli, despite being a heavy sleeper, would hear Germany shuffling and breathing weirdly and see him sweating and with a panicked expression. And he would wake him up and counsel the German.

Feli stayed, until 1951, and the Denazifaction was officially ended. And he travelled back home, to find that he was in okay condition too.

-x-x-

A knock on his door disrupted his thoughts._ **"Italy? Can I come in?**_

* * *

**A/N:**

While I am writing these, I notice that I am using history to back up my headcanons. Now. . . History is a very important subject to me. I want to view wars from both sides. And I can rarely talk about how I feel about things, especially to my family, about historical events. I plan to go into several different things, like, Denazification in the Soviet Area- the Berlin Zoo bombings, and I'm writing up Hiroshima from Japan's POV.

Also, Colorado AP History is making me mad, at the moment. Look it up.

**_*HISTORICAL NOTES*_**

_Italian Social Republic:_

The Italian Social Republc was a puppet state of Nazi Germany during the later part of World War II (from 1943 until 1945). It was the second and last incarnation of the Fascist Italian state. It was led by Duce Benito Mussolini and his reformed Republican Fascist Party.

The RSI exercised nominal sovereignty in northern Italy, but was largely dependent on German troops to maintain control.

In July 1943, after the Allied forces had pushed Italy out of North Africa and then invaded Sicily. The Grand Fascist Council, with the support of King Victor Emmanuel III, had overthrown and arrested Mussolini.

The new government began secret peace negotiations with the Allied powers. When surrender was announced in September, Germany was prepared and quickly intervened. Germany seized control of northern Italy, freed Mussolini and brought him to the German-occupied area to establish a puppet regime.

Around 25 April 1945, Mussolini's republic came to an end. In Italy, this day is known as Liberation Day.

_The Rehabilitation and Denazification:_

As soon as 1945, the Allied forces worked heavily on removing Nazi symbolism from Germany in a process dubbed as "denazification."

I used eyewitnesshistory for some parts of this, look it up.

Now, I am very tired, and my brain is literally mush right now. I believe I explained most of this in the chapter, and if I did not, please let me know, and you will get a free hug.

**Next Up:**

_Germany's Scars, Part 2- Gerita Fluff._


	6. NOTICE

**A/N:** Hello everyone! Okay, so, one of the things I try to do is use the stuff I learn in English and writing class in my fanfictions. . .

And I've noticed that I use a lot of what we call "Lazy Verbs."

I'm going to rewrite all of these, yes, I will still be working on the next two chapters as well.

I may be doing this to MFtOY as well.

So, this story is going on hiatus, and I will get this done ASAP.

The First Chapter has already been rewritten, and I recommend you all go check it.

~ Owlie Out


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